I walk into an Irish pub with a bunch of old friends. I order a Miller Lite. It feels wrong. It feels like an Irish sin, or at the very least, like I’m cheating on the Irish.
But it’s going to be a long night.
I’ll save the Harp or Guinness for later.
A few minutes later, everyone heads upstairs. Not me. This Irish Colleen wants to listen to the guitar player. I want to hear the music of my youth. I can almost feel my mom, my aunt, and my uncles singing next to me.
One of the girls comes down to tell me the band upstairs is great.
“I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I say. “I want to listen to Irish music.”
I talk to a few people at the bar.
A few minutes turns into twenty.
“I came to find you,” says one of my guy friends. “Come upstairs with us.”
I pay my tab and head upstairs. My friends are right. The band is great. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to go out and dance. It’s something I used to do a lot. I miss it.
I run to the bathroom.
I meet a few girls in there.