Not celebrating St Patrick's with family and friends was a first

Dubai - Working on weekends (and St Paddy's Day ) isn't a problem. It's missing out on tradition - the Irish songs, the bonhomie and everything green

Last Friday, as I sat at my desk thinking about what to write for this very column, I was donning a little green badge that read: "The Luck of The Irish". The date was March 17; St Patrick's Day - Ireland's equivalent of a national day. But unlike in years gone by, on that day I was wearing black, not green. Because on that day, I was mourning the death of my St Patrick's Day tradition.
Although my accent may be English, my heart is, and always will be in Ireland. With my mother from the South and my father from the North, I spent most of my childhood growing up there. It is a country of many firsts for me.
My late grandfather's farm was the birthplace of my very first pet, Larry. He was a lamb - the runt of the litter. But when he died in my arms at just three days old, it led to my first responsible decision as a child. I took a stance to never eat lamb again, but it was a dietary abstinence I later revoked when my mother presented me - a malnourished, noodle-consuming student - with a cracking lamb roast. Shameful, but so worth it.
Ireland bore witness to my first act of brazen rebellion too, when at the age of 10, my brother and I snuck behind one of the hedges on the farm and (rather unsmoothly) puffed away on our first ciggie. As we dared each other on before nearly choking on the smoke, it was an experience we were both keen to forget.
Then came the life-defining moment for me. It was the day I fell truly, madly, deeply in 'love'. The date was December 31, 1999 - I was 14 and as the fireworks went off behind me to ring in the Millennium - Dublin-born Alan Keegan stole my heart with a smile. That night he became (what I thought then) was the biggest love of my life. It was a 'love' that lasted three days in total, but it was powerful. So yes, that little island of Ireland cradled many defining moments for me as a youngster - hence my fondness for the place.
Now, going back to my mourning phase; I'm not one for using the internet's acronyms and slang as a way of expressing myself - if I want to laugh out loud, I'll just do, I refuse to type it - but this column calls for my first official use of an abbreviated 'in' word.
Last weekend, I suffered a severe case of FOMO ('fear of missing out' for the less text-savvy out there). It simply translates to an anxiety that an exciting or interesting event may currently be happening elsewhere. And as I sat at my desk on Friday, that exciting and interesting event was happening elsewhere. Global landmarks were being bathed in green, random rivers in America were being dyed a lighter shade of emerald, even merry foreigners with absolutely no ties to the country were revelling in the fun.
But here I was, a woman with a strong Irish heritage, working on Ireland's National Day. Now this isn't a cue for the violins. Weekend working isn't the issue, but missing out on my St Patrick's Day tradition is.
Every year, on March 17, I celebrate this day with my family, and we have no shame in celebrating it with all the bells and whistles of the Irish clichés. We proudly wave the Tricolour clad in our finest green ensembles, we sing Irish songs, sip Irish classics and don a little sprig of shamrock too (a young clover, used as the symbol of Ireland).
But this was my first national day in my 31 years spent without family; without being donned in green; and without that little sprig of shamrock.
Instead, I sat furiously typing away at this; my obituary to St Patrick's Day, March 17, 2017. Next year, however, I vow to revive that very tradition. I'll bring back a day dedicated to cheesy clichés, an abundance of green and a slightly sore head the next morning.
kelly@khaleejtimes.com
Kelly covers Education. She finds it endearing that people call her Kel
 

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