Some years have proven better than others since my first jig, but I’m here to report that this St Patty’s Day finds your intrepid reporter in a very good place. The environs of which Joyce once streamed on madly and Wilde satirized out of a hopeless ache. The thing Yeats built churches on with romantically placed nouns and passionately charged verbs.
This St Patrick’s Day was destined to be my first without a pretty lass in quite some time. And then, there she was. And there I was. And now, we’re busy venturing into that crazy little thing called love. Together. As with any good place I reach, my tendency is to give thanks to all the people who helped make me? Me. My Irish posts are female-centric for a reason. I was raised by women, I learned everything I’ll ever need to know from women. I trust them, appreciate and love them. Because they speak my language and I am blessed by their presence.
There’s mom, my first girl. The one who taught me the New York Yankees and the efficacy of fist fighting when all else fails. There’s my little girl, Ari, who happens to be my best friend. I’ve been in love with her since she opened her eyes and looked into me with an entire world of questions in her cry. I’ve got the cousins Yve and Marlene. They were my introduction to how pretty girls live and breathe. The platonic quality of such an education paid off handsomely when I was ready to venture out. There’s Felicia, who shares my affliction for all things Miami Dolphins and who happens to think I give great romantic advice (poor girl) There’s Lindsay, a rainbow haired beauty who has a way with women and words and wit. There’s Karen, the girl I won a dance contest with in Killington Vermont when we thought there was a maybe to us, before we realized the maybe was that I would be the Maid of Honor at her wedding, kinda. There’s Alyce, who would be played by Queen Latifah if they ever wrote her life story. She’s a force of nature who’s raised three kids on her own and seen them out into the world, and she’s proof that superheroes don’t wear capes, they wear whatever the hell they feel like wearing. There’s Tracy, whose relationship with her husband has inspired many a pretty word from my keyboard. And there’s Ashley, who never fails to supply me with bad jokes, wicked humor and brilliantly morbid observations on life. She’s an old soul, and she’s going to marry Jason Seagal one day. I just hope her significant other is cool with that. I have my sister Noelle and her beautiful partner Deanne. For anyone who rails on about the evils of gay marriage, I give you these two. They have been together longer than any couple I know, this side of my parents. And they are raising a brilliant young lady named Julia Skye who is nine, going on thirty. And she just so happens to share my affinity for prank calls and The Carbonaro Effect.
There’s my Holy Trinity here at Drinks. Mama Michelle, Mary Wild Words and Christy Mad Science make this blog so much more than just a place from which I can rant and rave. I can’t imagine not having them around. To bounce ideas off of, to read, to learn from, to laugh with. They inspire, incite, provoke . . . they breathe a different way of looking at the world into me.
Still, I spent most of the past year getting all introspective on things. Like, how was it that the good women kept showing up in my life, and yet . . . I didn’t have that girl? Yanno, the girl who instantly becomes my better half. The girl who finishes my sentences with something better sounding. The girl who whispers my good nights and is my first thought when I awake. The girl who scratches the itch I didn’t even know I had. The girl who is Streisand to my Redford. That girl.
While I never stopped believing in love, I had called off the search for such a thing. I’m talking the total immersion of the heart and soul stuff that leaves you breathless. The kind of thing that had Lloyd Dobler hoisting a boom box over his head. The way Carly Simone sang it and the Bronte sisters wrote it and Keats imagined it. That.
It’s so easy to stop trying. To stop believing in the idea that you can fall in love again, and that’s because falling in love? Hurts like bloody hell. It can desert you, taunt and torture you. It can crush you into a million unrecognizable pieces of yourself. It can leave you believing that maybe it’s best to go it alone, because doing so is preferable to all that pain.
Well, it’s not. Turns out, choosing to go it alone was’t saving my heart, it was starving it. And then something came along that changed the day I was walking inside of. And now I find myself behaving like a puppy, searching for love songs, wearing a smile that won’t quit and thinking about her, like . . all the time.
As Samuel Beckett is my witness, the Holy Day didn’t forget me. So it is that I have something much more potent than ninety proof happening to me. The funny thing about love is that you never know how much you missed it until it shows up. Love is the craziest idea in the world. It also happens to be the best one. To fall under the spell of another human being is basically like high diving off a star, and knowing you’ll be just fine when you land. Feet on the ground, the wind at your backs and the road rising up to meet two special someones who plan on taking forever with them.
May you share a table with that special someone, and may the conversations go long, the love go plenty and the stars lead you home.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day.