Today is Saint Patrick’s Day. I didn’t even remember this morning, choosing an outfit of blue and white instead of swathing myself in green clothing, jewelry, hairpieces, nail polish, etc. I went downstairs, and there was a box of Lucky Charms on the table. I couldn’t quite figure that one out. Sugar cereals are a big no-no at our house.
I started to warily examine it from all angles, wondering if it were secretly filled with oat bran or granola. But no, a peek inside the box assured me, it really was sugar-coated oat cereal and funky-shaped, weirdly-colored marshmallows.
“It’s for Saint Patrick’s Day, you know, leprechauns and all,” my mom explained.
Oh yeah. St. Patrick’s Day.
I considered going back upstairs to change into something green, but I was simply too lazy to do anything but pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. That’s pretty much, probably, the only way I’m going to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Along with slapping anybody who pinches me. I guess it’d be a bigger deal if I were Irish. I am not. St. Patrick’s Day is one of those “extra” holidays for me. It’s there, but the only time I really think about it is on the actual day. There’s no big two-month buildup, like there is for Christmas. It’s not like I could hardly go to sleep last night, I was so excited.
Like I said, it’d be different if I were Irish.