celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in a decidedly un-Irish way. I saw 300, drank two beers, and went home. I saw the movie with a good friend, who told me that, on her subway ride to the movie theater, some guy actually puked on himself. It was 7pm. Meanwhile, when I got out of the subway at 7pm, I ran into a wastoid so trashed he needed to be propped up by his friends. And when I say “ran into,” I mean that almost literally. A snow storm has left the New York streets so full of slush and slide that being drunk was the last adversity you really needed tonight.

I’ll be honest. Part of me (perhaps the Irish part?) felt like I should be at some bar knocking back pitchers of Patron. But I’m 32, and at midnight, it was with a certain pride that I walked back to my apartment from the subway—past the chainsmoking masses, past the hot hipster girls with green necklaces around their necks—knowing that I was sober. That I could drive them to a hospital if need be. I stopped at a bodega to get some cat food. The guy behind the counter was negotiating a snarl of green necklaces emblazoned with HEINEKEN as I placed my money on the counter.

“Would you like one”? he asked.

“Of course.”

And so I walked back to my apartment, three green necklaces knocking around my neck like a cheap rapper. Looked funny over my pink scarf, but hey, I got the luck of the Irish.