Part of me wishes that I could pull a Twitter and only say half the story of why I love St. Patrick’s Day. But since this beautiful blog obviously has a little more space than 140 characters, I suppose I might as well share it all.
You know it’s St. Patrick’s Day and you’re probably wearing green (hmm… I need to get some green denim ASAP), but there’s something a little bit better about St. Patrick’s Day for me: C.
Today marks C.’s and my fifth anniversary. He’s my absolute favorite (just ask him!), and while I can’t spend this day with him, I can share a very humorous and slightly embarrassing story about how we first started dating with all of you. Get ready to giggle.
Here’s some background: the second semester of my Freshman year of college, I made the decision to take some time off of school and get myself sane (that’s another story…) but my father made me get a job. So, your little Denim Debutante began hosting at Bennigan’s.
Oh good god, talk about a terrible job. It paid fairly well, and got me out of the house… plus, I met some amazing friends that I still keep in touch with to this day… but I still wince when I catch a whiff of super greasy food. There is, however, one day when working at Bennigan’s is not only far more lucrative than normal, it’s extremely emotionally scarring.
That day? St. Patrick’s Day. Little 18-year-old JP was doing all the fun hosting bits (sadly, too close to the bar) and got smacked in the butt one too many times by drunk senior citizens. I wasn’t even all that good looking at that point in time – stress weight, black (yes, BLACK!) hair, braces, flat chest and my chin/teeth prior to jaw surgery will do that to you – but alcohol has no limits.
Frustrated (and a little uncomfortable… I’ve never gotten used to being hit on), I went up to the host stand and said, “God, I could deal with this a whole lot better if I just had a drink.”
C., my Knight in Alcoholic-Shining Armor, then whispered to me, “I have some SoCo in my car.” What a man.
Drunk and heavily medicated (at the time, kids… don’t panic!), I made out with C. – who was about as confused and underage (he was only 20) as I was – in the back room. And at a table (after virtually everyone was gone… I think). There are photographs somewhere… but I can’t find them (oh, how I wish I could share them! I spent the day wearing an oversized t-shirt because I wasn’t informed that I couldn’t wear a tank top). You should take into account that we had been working together for the past two months and had barely spoken, so this was absolutely out of the blue.
I’m not really sure how we got to where we are now. C. tells me that he tried to break up with me once, but I talked him out of it (while I don’t remember this, I don’t doubt it at all… it sounds like me). Both of us have had our fair share of total mess-ups and ridiculous moments. Through it all (and with a couple more hilarious stories under our belts which I may or may not share on Monday… C.’s Birthday), we’re stronger and, certainly in my case, nicer to look at (he’s ALWAYS been nice to look at).
There is a sad part, though. As of January, our Bennigan’s is gone – well, they’re pretty much all gone – and has been replaced with a Red Robin (which, let’s be honest, is a definite step forward. I still have lingering guilt about serving people those fucking Monte Cristo sandwiches). But C. and me? We’ve made it through my return to Chicago, C.’s move to Colorado and some other fun and joyous moments without killing each other.
So, Happy Anniversary, babers. You’re more than I deserve and nowhere near what I thought I wanted… you’re so much more. You put up with the fact that I’m a professional blogger with a pension for overworking and you love me no matter what. Call it what you will: “Better Half”, “Soulmate”… all I know is that I am so overwhelmingly glad that I can, every single day, wake up and call you “Mine”.