As of late, I have to explain to people on St. Patrick’s Day, that I lack green clothing out of my own hard-headed stubbornness (which is true, and also untrue). This morning when I woke up, I looked at the (few) green garments in my wardrobe and thought, “Miya, would it KILL you to just wear something green?” It would though. It would. I compromised by wearing an olive green bra. And one of the mismatched socks I pulled from my drawer has a turquoise dotted pattern of sorts. Turquoise is a breed of green, right? Regardless, it absolutely would kill me to wear green. So I didn’t do it.
To me St. Patrick’s Day symbolizes a time when I thought life was simple, and events that occurred on that day demonstrated to me that no, life isn’t simple; but life isn’t even necessarily complicated either; life just is. And when you think everything is going great, it can ROYALLY fuck you. And it can strike on Christmas or Easter or Halloween or when-the-hell-ever; but this time for me (actually, two times for me), it royally fucked *me* on St. Patrick’s Day. And every year since, March has approached me angrily and I sit through people’s scrutinizing about the colour green and I see everyone around me on the green beer train and I’m not a part of that. It’s not my world at all. I wonder if it ever will be, ever again. Until I forgive myself for both of those miserable St. Patrick’s Days, it won’t ever be.