Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. I worked out in the morning and went grocery shopping around lunchtime. Grocery shopping! After putting the food away and throwing a load of laundry in, I sat on my couch scrolling TikToks filled with people partying in bars, Irish music blasting in the background, yelling things like “Slainte” or “Pog Mo Thoin.” Sitting there in my sweatpants, it suddenly dawned on me that I had entered yet another new phase of life. I had become the polar opposite of the St. Patrick’s Day girl I used to be. How in the hell did I get this old?
When I was (much) younger, St. Patrick’s Day was an occasion to party all day and test your liver’s stamina. I would hit the Boston pubs early with friends, starting at Mr. Dooley’s to grab an Irish breakfast with a Guinness chaser. It was important to line the stomach, but equally important to begin drinking or else you didn’t look committed to the day. After a few hours, Dooley’s would start filling up with people taking lunch breaks - no plans to return to their jobs in the afternoon. Sometime later, we would make our way over to the Black Rose Pub to flirt with the Irish-accented bartenders and listen to a roaring ‘diddily-diddily’ music session. The Black Rose was always busy. It was close to Faneuil Hall, so very touristy, but also a staple of Boston Irish-ness, so it brought the crowds in.
Stumbling out of the Black Rose in the early evening, (it would be a stumble at that point) my friends and I would make our way up to our final destination, J.J. Foleys on Kingston Street. Foleys was my local; my usual stomping ground. I knew the bouncer, the bartenders, and the bar staff. It was like Cheers, “where everybody knows your name.” Falling into our usual booth in the back room, our heads would be spinning from the beer we had already ingested throughout the day. Smoke filled the room, hanging like a blanket directly above our heads. (Yes, smoking in bars was allowed back then. I smoked. Everyone I knew smoked. It was a whole thing.) The night would progress and my friends and I would get more and more intoxicated with every pint poured. The bar swelled with people, then emptied. Then swelled again, then emptied. Like a tide, we rode the wave, stuck to our seats, only getting up to order more drinks. Our livers screamed, but we never gave in. Not until last call. No one leaves until after last call! Sometime after two in the morning, we’d finally stand to exit.
Drunk, giggling, and donning a plastic green hat or shamrock sunglasses, I would zig-zag home to the North End and tumble into my apartment, falling into a hazy half-sleep. I remember that feeling, the room twisting around in circles, the feel of my clothes still on me, makeup hardening on my eyes, the bed sheets bothering my face. Drunk sleep is an interesting sensation. One minute you’re dancing with a stranger at the bar, the next you’re wiping drool from your pillow. How you got there is always a blur.
The morning after St. Patrick’s Day, I would simply wake up and go to work. It was like the day never happened. I was right as rain.
In my former life, I also worked at an Irish pub in downtown Boston, near Haymarket. Working the St. Paddy’s Day holiday was an entirely different experience. I was a waitress at the Green Dragon Tavern. We had to arrive earlier than usual for our shift in time to prepare for the day. Like most pubs on St. Paddy’s, the establishment switched around the menu to include only certain foods: corned beef sandwiches, fish n chips, Reubens, and shepherd’s pie. Our full menu was taken offline for the day. At the bar, beer was no longer served in glass pints, but rather in plastic to thwart any shenanigans. Prices were manipulated at the back register; everything went up fifty cents for one day only. Get it while the gettin’s good! After stocking the bar, fixing our stations, and making sure the kitchen staff was ready, we’d open the doors to a waiting crowd around ten in the morning. The bar would remain jam-packed right up until closing time.
As a waitress, I saw the other side of Paddy’s Day, the sober side. I got to witness the progression of drunkenness that the holiday brought. I saw girls in tight green dresses puke in the bathroom, sloppy “jig” like dancing, food thrown, Irish songs poorly sung at the top of lungs, beers spilled, floors sticky, fist fights breaking out over jealous suitors. It got downright messy. Amateur night, we’d call it in the industry. I couldn’t help but think I was that amateur just the year before.
Nowadays, my St. Patrick’s Days are different. I make the obligatory boiled dinner and I may dig out my shamrock earrings, but that’s the extent of it. The days of drinking for twelve hours straight are long gone.
And you know what? That’s okay. My daughters were both out partying yesterday. It’s their turn now.
