The other side of the party
I had a great time on St. Patrick’s Day last weekend. Not a great time like a lot of you temporary leprechauns did with your pints of green beer and your Irish car bomb shots and your Jameson whiskeys and whatnot, but then I also didn’t wake up with a head that felt like it fought a shillelagh and a tongue like a blarney stone.
I went to a St. Patrick’s Day dance. It was a rock concert, actually. With a beer garden. But I didn’t go to rock, roll or beer. I was the sober guy there which meant I got to watch two shows — the one on stage and the much better show put on by the guests. It was awesome. At least 4.5 stars out of 5. There was a little of everything there. Drunk people dancing, drunk people acting goofy, drunk people being sad — it was an emotional rollercoaster.
Have you ever done something like this? I don’t mean just going out and being a sober driver on a Thursday night. I mean being sober on one of the craziest party days of the year. It is an unbelievable eye opener. People lose their minds on March 17. Many of them seemed like they started celebrating with Guinness on their Cheerios and somehow kept it going well into the evening. I admired their stamina even as I smugly judged their inability to walk or form actual words. And, despite the impairment, they had some very on-point dance moves.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy going out on the lash for a pint or a wee dram o’ Bushmills till I’m knackered, but not to the point where I’m locked out of my tree like a monkey who forgot his keys, if you know what I mean (and I hope you do because I do not have a clue).
Before St. Patrick’s Day, I was on the other side of a different kind of party — the March break vacation party. You probably know it. You were probably there. I think everyone was there but me.
With two kids in university, we decided this might not be a good year, fiscally, to seek fun and sun over March break. We couldn’t even afford one of the two. No fun, no sun. What we could afford to do, while everyone else was jetting off to all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean or Mexico or setting sail on cruise ships or paying a visit to Mickey, Donald and Goofy at the Happiest Place on Earth, was take care of everyone’s pets.
Now, in the months leading up to March break, my wife and I were in complete agreement that the responsible thing to do was nothing. We should be wise with our finances and just stay home for March break. It wasn’t a popular decision but one we agreed to, together.
Then the pictures started popping up all over the Facebook. Oh, look, these guys booked a last-minute trip to Cuba. Oh and look, these people are at the air- port and bound for Florida. Oh and so are these people. And these people.
Not us, though. And somehow our mutually agreed upon decision to stay home became my fault. I suggested that we had agreed on not going away so it’s not really my fault. Then I was blamed for talking my wife into not going away. That is true. I used sneaky tactics like sound arguments based in financial reality and pointing out that money, for us, is a finite resource. Oh, I am a smooth talker.
We watched as so many friends travelled and sunned themselves to a beautiful tomato red hue. They were swimming up to bars or wearing shorts and flip flops to hockey games in Tampa or swimming with dolphins. Meanwhile, on the home front, we were playing rock, paper, scissors to see who would go to our friend’s house to feed her toothless cat, JoJo.
Our friends were in Italy, of all places, leaving JoJo in our care. Twice a day we would have to travel over to JoJo’s house to mush up a plate of smelly, wet cat food for her because she really is a toothless cat. I never even asked why JoJo has no teeth.
For good measure, we boarded an extra dog at our house, too. Ace the Wonder Dog joined our family — me, my wife and our dogs, Monty and Eddie, and our cat, Maggie. It was a full, hairy house.
It really was and I developed a pretty good, steady allergy. I almost felt like I had a hangover but without the fun of a night before.