March 18th: The Morning After

I woke up, fell out of bed, and never considered dragging a comb across my head. It was 7 a.m., there were children in my bed and my wife was already at work.  I took a deep breath, went downstairs and drank a cup.

There were birds singing in the springtime sunshine.  I opened the door and greeted the morning.  Dogs wagged their tails, rabbits did that thing they do with their nose that is so cute, and I felt a song coming on.

It didn't.  Something worse came over me.  I found myself standing there in the open air with a cup full of coffee, my robe blowing behind me in the breeze like the cape I pretend it to be, and I felt good.  I really felt good.

What the hell!  It's March 18th.  I should be lying with a bag of frozen peas across my eyes and a stomach full of regret.  I should be explaining to the kids that the coat of green liquid surrounding the toilet is actually residue from a friendly dragon that stopped by and that it smells like cheap beer because that's what dragons smell like, everyone knows that.

No.  There was no hangover.  I was embarrassed.  In fact I hadn't had a single drink on St. Paddy's other than the Guinness I had 'round midnight, but for all intents and purposes that was Sunday night, and even then, it wasn't anything crazy, just a couple of beers while I filled out my March Madness brackets.

I had gone all of St. Patrick's Day drinking nothing more than a glass of water and some Earl Grey.  I hadn't surrounded myself with loud and unruly drunks, but rather loud and unruly children.  I didn't get lucky, but I did kick my wife's ass on the XBOX.  There was that.

I realized that the closest I came to celebrating my Irish heritage was this:

You know, I'm okay with it.  Dragons cause more trouble than they're worth, and Danny Boy just makes me cry.  Usually.