I’ve always felt a connection to St. Patrick’s Day – maybe it’s the red hair (which I do believe is actually attributed to a Scottish heritage – but whiskey gives me heartburn so I’ve latched on to the beer-drinking Irish), or maybe it’s because I love the color green and have enough clothing to do it up on March 17th, or perhaps it’s because my mom’s favorite joke is a St. Patrick’s Day joke (what’s green and stays out all night? Paddy O’Furniture. I can still see her trying for hours in vain to tell us the punch line…).
No matter the reason behind my love of the day – I usually dress the part, to the point of being ridiculous (’cause nothing says, ‘hi I’m a licensed professional in charge of your healthcare’ like a shamrock headband and green, glitter bow tie). Today was no different.
I had my outfit all ready: black boots, shamrock knee socks to poke out over the boots, green leggings, white top, shamrock scarf and blinking shamrock necklace.
I started with the leggings and noticed the waistband seemed not at all what I’d expect of a ‘one size’ article of clothing, but I thought maybe something magical would happen as they were pulled up (I don’t what I expected – who expects something like that?). I got them to my knees and noticed the waistband was already leaving a mark; I started sweating – immediately, then my heart started pounding and I kept thinking, “how fat am I??? Why has Dan not told me?” I reached back for the tag and sure enough ‘one size’ was taunting me; I whimpered then continued to force them higher – at mid thigh I blacked out.
Ok… black leggings it is… now for the socks.
You ever been so bad off you required a tourniquet? I guess if faced with losing my foot or something I’d say bring on the tourniquet but.. just sitting on my bed looking down my leg at this design that was just moments ago a perfectly shaped shamrock and now resembled nothing I’d ever seen in nature or anywhere else for that matter – I didn’t like the way my blood was pooling above the sock.
Scratch the socks and subsequently the boots.
At this point the only thing left from the original outfit was the blinking necklace. I couldn’t believe Abby didn’t wear hers – she LOVED it last night. I guess it’s a good thing; the blinking lights are so obnoxious I can’t believe more people don’t have seizures. I grabbed it off her dresser, hit the button and ran through the different blinking options; I turned it off for the drive to work so as not to cause accidents and draped it over my head. I hit the button once I got to work and…….. nothin’! I have zero light action.
I’d like to crack open a Guinness but I’m pretty sure the bottle would be empty.
No… the luck O’ the Irish sure is not with me today (oh that Scottish blood o’ mine). Did I mention I started my morning by stepping in dog poop with my bare foot? Clearly tiny waistbands, thick calves and a weird electromagnetic field are the least of my worries…