Coming from a long line of pub crawling micks, I’m sure it’s no surprise that St. Patrick’s Day is positively one of my favorite holidays. My dad plays the bagpipes and the day I was born he sang “Black Velvet Band” to me, a pretty little ditty about a pick-pocketing prostitute. As I was growing up, my dad would get plastered the night before St. Patrick’s Day and paint a massive Shamrock at the center of my hometown’s main drag with his friends. The next day he would be hung over and content, playing bagpipes all day long all over the community. Despite our current hiatus, I can still muster up fond memories of him parading into my kindergarten classroom to perform for my classmates, as I sat indian style on the carpeted floor in my miniture kilt.
As of late, life has been A-Okay. I’m not far from my goal weight and having a great time getting used to being in this new body. I really wish I would have made this lifestyle change a LONG time ago. But like my magical and impetuous father, my genes seem to direct me to making poor choices before the right ones find me in due time. It could just be that this is the cost of having a few too many drops of rebel blood flowing in my veins.
“I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year,
and I spent all me money on whiskey and beer.
And now I’m returning with gold in great store,
and I never will play the wild rover no more.”
You Said It