Well, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. To celebrate, Londoners are starting their drinking just a little earlier than usual (9am instead of 11am?), which means an extra hour of the usual debauchery, and an extra helping of curious half-digested food piles on the city sidewalks. There was even a drunk person at the library today. Attention fixed on the sparse selection of DVDs, the drunkard would have escaped attention were it not for his unmistakable acrid stink of alcohol. But I must admit, there’s a wonderful energy on the streets. It’s one of the few days of the year that the alcoholics are socially allowed to feel a sense of pride in their passion. The carouser who usually looks dead-faced as he swallows his tall boy at the bus stop today seems suddenly present, lifting a Guinness in celebration.
Sometimes I wonder why I live in this city. Is this a “if you can’t beat them, join em’” situation? I confess, as I snuck past the Auld Shillelagh, our neighborhood Irish pub, I was suddenly compelled to dive into my own pint of Guinness. What is it? The camaraderie? The lack of inhibition? The idea of a beer in the sun?
There was a time in my life when I could relax with a beer (okay, lots of beers) with absolutely zero worry about the consequences of my actions. In many ways, it was a time when I was truly able to live in the moment. And in many ways, I was a lot happier.
Or was I?
Then, I was in complete denial of how my food and drink affected my body; now I’m hyper aware of the situation. Is this growing up? Or growing jaded? Perhaps I’m just growing confused.
I do know that worrying about it can’t possibly be good for my health. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I am Irish, after all. I hope the Auld Shillelagh has room for one more boozer…
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