I know a few cities around this country put on a good party for St. Patrick’s Day. Booze flows freely, Uber stays busy, and many don’t remember the subtle details of the late afternoon day drinking that becomes evening insanity and then a much earlier than anticipated bedtime. Those who started their festivities before I ate breakfast don’t often make it much past dinner.
For those of you unseasoned in Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day boondoggles, I don’t think there’s a city in this country that celebrates the holiday with more gusto than this town.
With that, Bostonians just got their panties all up in a bunch, because they’re all Irish after all. New Yorkers can’t fathom any city being better than theirs at anything. And I bet there are a few smaller towns with their own festivities who think they can give the Chi a run for its money.
Lived in Boston. Lots of friends in New York. Chicago does it crazier. For starters, we die our own river green with a giant “Shamrock Shake,” courtesy of McDonald’s, whose world headquarters sits among the white picket fences of suburban Chicago.
Honestly, I’ve never actually celebrated like my crazy cohorts around here. In my industry, we work on Saturdays in March, all of them, and Chicago always celebrates the holiday on the Saturday before the actual day if it doesn’t fall on a Saturday itself.
Every year since we’ve moved here, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my 8:30 am walk to the office filled with already drunk post-grads, scantily clad college girls in the middle of winter, and over zealous high school kids who somehow convinced their probably naive parents to let them take the train into the city for the day. Mayhem has arrived.
I arrive at my desk, and the office fills with clicking keyboard keys and bagel chatter. (The Saturday bagels and lox in our office are kind of a big deal.) Cell phones ring more and more frequently as the day progresses and younger staffs’ friends continue to call. More intoxicated with each dial, they wonder when their currently sober friends will be done working and meeting up with them to “catch up.”
Let me be clear. These bar crawlers are drunk far beyond “catching up.” It’s commonplace for some of them to have no idea where they are, where they’ve been or where they’re going. No one will be “catching up” with them.
I’m also not a huge party-goer. The idea of waking up early to adorn my body in ridiculous shades of anything green followed by a steady stream of alcoholic beverages for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and every snack in between does NOT sound fun to me. Call me lame and boring, but it ain’t my scene.
Despite my aversion to being the violator of laws prohibiting public intoxication, I did take the opportunity to throw on my kelly green blouse. After all, every else is wearing green, right? I bet those bar-crawling betties would be proud of me.
Blouse – Style & Co // Jeans – Adriano Goldschmied (via Salvation Army) // Necklace – Bauble Bar // Bracelet – Vintage // Shoes – Anne Klein