I'm surrounded by drunk, angry leprechans

There was a time that I relished in a cold, green beer in the mid-morning of St. Patrick's day. Rubbing shoulders with other fellow "Irish-for-the-day" revelers was a common affair each year requiring a shopping excursion for the best tiny green baby tee with an Irish enuendo emblazoned across the chest and a tiny packed Irish Pub blasting the Flogging Mollys.

We (and you know who you are) would dig out mounds of shamrock shaped beeds, search for the perfect green accessories (purse, hair ribbons and socks) to complete our festive looks all so we could drunkenly stumble thru the streets of Hoboken or Manhattan celebrating this American holiday while needing a mid afternoon sopping meal from McDonalds (you know, that Irish place?)

Today, as I leave my office to head home I can't help but wonder why I didn't take today off to drink green beer and celebrate that St. Patrick drove the slithering snakes from Ireland many many years ago. At least I think he did.

And then it hits me. Literally, a drunken, hungry, street meat craving leprechan, springs off the sidewalks chanting in his faux slurring Irish Brougue...."Kish Me, I'm Iris"

And then I realize...I'm too effing old for this shit.