The morning after.

I admit it.  Yesterday was tough.  I haven’t purposely missed a day and night out for St. Paddy’s Day in over 15 years.  A typical day would begin at noon when I would drag whoever was willing (usually Ed P.) to a local pub where we’d enjoy lunch and our first beer of the day.  Eventually, and after much more beer, others would begin to arrive and the celebrations continue late into the night.  The pubs would be busting at the seams (a fire marshall’s dream) making it a challenge to find a comfortable spot to sit or stand, but it was just part of the day.  Something you came to expect.  Everyone is Irish on St. Paddy’s Day and the more the merrier. 

But this year, there was no way we could do it.  Besides the fact that we don’t have a babysitter yet (unless one of our parents is in town), we didn’t feel like sandwiching ourselves into a tiny pub with an 11 week old baby.  Not that it wasn’t considered.  Now that there’s no smoking in restaurants and pubs, it becomes an option to head there for lunch or dinner without problem.  But not when 350 of our neighbours decide to go as well, all the while consuming more beer than they have all year long.

So last night Dan, Jaia and I stayed in.  We cooked fish and chips (minus the chips and the grease), had a beer and toasted St. Patrick from the comfort of our couch.  It was lovely.  Calm and lovely. 

But it wasn’t the same. 

And maybe in a good way. 

For the first time in 15 years, I woke up on March 18th without a hangover.