Dear St. Patrick,
I think it's not overstating it to say that our relationship could use some work. You understand, though, that I didn't have a devoted example to follow? Despite green being one of my mom's favorite colors, she wears any other color on the 17th and firmly refuses to capitulate to the inherent physical threat of your Day. Not so for her progeny! Come March 17th, my siblings and I were usually bedecked in years past with the appropriate grassy hue. True, my participation in your "holiday" growing up was slightly half-hearted--I mostly wore green as a measure of self-preservation against some pretty fierce pinching. Wasn't that enough? How much do you expect, really, from someone who rarely even goes outside to look at fireworks on New Year's Eve or Independence Day? Well, who really can even see fireworks in Alaska on the 4th of July anyway? Too light.
But I digress. Our relationship really hit rock-bottom in 2001. A bad year for the country, an unfortunate year for me. I was on a little mini-vacation in Idaho with my friend, Paul, to celebrate his brother coming home from his mission. Catholic, LDS . . . we're all Christian, right? You couldn't have cut me some slack? Yes, I neglected to wear green that year. Yes, I can see that wearing blue is somewhat more insulting than something completely opposite the color wheel than green. It's like I couldn't even get credit for getting it close. You decided you needed a blood sacrifice.
Though I would like to nurse my injury in great detail at your expense, I will opt for brevity and say that--really--flesh, blood and bone are a far cry from a pinch. Ever mindful of that disastrous turn in our relationship (seriously, was amputation NECESSARY?), I have had a spotless, green-wearing record from 2002-on. Never can be too careful, right?
Though I have noted the steady marching forth of the dates this month (I remembered my sister's anniversary yesterday and my friend Shawn's birthday today), I must confess that I wasn't thinking of you when I woke up this morning. However, honoring you (or at least your perverse ego) must have been subliminally a part of my mind this morning as I got dressed. Coincidentally, the only shirt I could find in my car was green. (Stop mocking me--I don't usually use my car as a wardrobe, but I'm housesitting and forgot to bring a batch of fresh clothes to wear and thus was lowered to foraging my car for school attire.) SEE? YOU'VE EVEN AFFECTED MY SUBCONSCIOUS.
I thought I was safe. I thought I'd sacrificed enough. So you can imagine my startled incredulity when my feet flew out from underneath me this morning with morbid enthusiasm and I ended up an ungraceful tangle of limbs in the snow on the icy sidewalk. Head thumped? Check. Knee whacked? Check. Bedecked in fluffy snow in unmentionable parts? Check. Cell phone sunk in clouds of freshly-fallen flakes? Check. At least I still have all my 9 1/3 digits (such as they are)?
Whatever. Next year I'm wearing RED. Consider this a trial separation. Apologize prettily enough and I'll reconsider in 365 days.
Maybe.
