Not that I’ve never sat in a pool of my own vomit, because I have. Not that I’ve never gotten a bit too toasted on St. Patrick’s Day, because I have. Not that I don’t claim to be half Irish for a day like everyone else, because I do (though in fairness, I claim this the other 364 days of the year, too).
No, I’m not participating in the Irish revelry today because I’m just a little too old. I also don’t care for Guinness. Guinness, to me, is like drinking cement, washed down with pancake syrup. Two pints of Guinness, and my stomach lurches and quakes with dread. Then there’s all the corn beef and the cabbage. Good stuff, just not for me. Reubens? Hell yes. Corn beef and cabbage? Meh.
By all rights, the day after St. Patrick’s Day would be a national holiday, just like the Monday after the Super Bowl should be. Two days known for being drowned in alcohol, and all those people who were drunken idiots at 8 p.m. are expected to show up at 8 a.m. chipper and motivated. Unless you’re a chronic drinker who partakes in the “hair of the dog” ritual, it’s nigh impossible not to feel like wet cardboard the day after.
So, I’m abstaining. Am I now officially “unhip”? No, I’m pretty sure I reached that threshold years ago.
