Max Riffner

The Parlor

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Years of Green

It does not fail. Every year, the night before St. Patrick’s Day, I realize I have nothing green and/or clean to wear for the holiday. Of course, this played out true again last night. While I rummaged through my closet, my wife told me, “Y’know, we’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to wear green.”

Thinking for a second I might have been that poor kid in junior high who suddenly realized you weren’t supposed to wear a costume anymore for Halloween, I nonetheless continued my search, scoring a clean (but needing an iron’s warm touch) shirt with a suitable amount of green in it. There is something fun in the tradition of wearing green, almost as fun as the mass inebriation that has surely started at 6:30 AM sharp for some. I am loathe to remit it. It’s a small way for everyone of all ages to participate, even if you are in no way Irish.

As my wife left for work this morning, I looked up from my coffee and pointed out that she had a green turtleneck on. She smiled one of her smiles that must have charmed many adults when she was young, and walked out the door, leaving me with a goofy smile as well.

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