I am not a girl who’s too cool to worry about being lame during holidays; I am the master of Christmas. I love Easter bunnies. I decorate the tiny purple tree in my office with hearts every Valentine’s Day.
But come St. Patrick’s Day, you will not find me in any green.
Nevermind that I’m not remotely Irish (just look at me–do I LOOK like I could possibly be Irish?), I know the day isn’t really for Irish people. Instead, it’s that I sometimes still have the personality of an 8-year-old, and you’re not the boss of me.
When I was in Catholic grade school, even though we wore tiny plaid navy uniforms, it was Such A Thing to wear some green on St. Patrick’s Day. But I didn’t know that when I was young; my mother is Italian, and my father is Iranian–forgive me for my ignorance about the tradition.
So on St. Patrick’s Day, all I remember is this little horde of Catholic school girls and boys, coming at me with their thumbs and pointer fingers like pincers.
“She’s not wearing green, pinch her! She’s not wearing green, pinch her!”
In my mind’s eye, I swat them all away like a cloud of gnats, but I’m sure my annoyance was much quieter than that when I was 8.
From that day on, I made a concerted effort to NOT wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.
Today, as a full-fledged grown up, when I got dressed this morning, I considered putting on my Kelly green sweater, to just go with the flow and get in on the celebration. But my inner 8-year-old won, and I’m instead wearing this melon orange shirt I just got from Old Navy.
Instead, I prefer to celebrate my yearly desire to be Irish with, of course, food. Reservations have already been made to get some corned beef in my belly. I may send it down with some Jameson.
And if anyone in the restaurant tries to pinch me, I will kick them; the bruise will eventually turn green.
See, I’m being helpful.