A First-Timer's Take on St. Patrick's Day Along Lower Greenville.

Each year, on the Saturday closest to St. Patrick's Day, Greenville Avenue gets a little greener.

And, each year, as the under-aged version of myself thumbed through tagged photos on Facebook, I've gotten a little greener, too. With envy.

(Get it?)

Call it a case of bad luck, but until recently, I've had to miss out on what might be the most-attended and least remembered annual event in Dallas. My reasons varied, but the result was always the same: I was left to suffer the consequences of extreme FOMO while the rest of my fair city partied on without me.

This year, however, was different. This year, I awoke from my all-too-sober stupor at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday to find that the stars had aligned overnight, and that 2014 would finally provide me my chance to get all white girl wasted in the name of St. Patrick. The day would go down in history as my first — and probably last — time partaking in the annual debauchery that is the Greenville Avenue St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

My goal was to make the most out of the next 24 hours by taking pictures with strange men, pretending to be Irish in exchange for free shots, and doing other things that any good mother would strongly advise against.

So, what was losing my St. Paddy’s Day Parade virginity like? Do I feel like a new woman? Was it worth the wait?

Sure, it was a swell time. But would I go back and do it again? Probably not.

Maybe if I were still in perpetual college party mode, I would've been better prepared for the shenanigans that ensued. And I also probably would've better handled my Sunday hangover.

Anyway. The parade started at 11 a.m., but my friend group and I missed it entirely because apparently we were too low on Lower-Greenville to have witnessed the spectacle. It's not like we missed out entirely, though. There was still enough entertainment around us to keep us all amused: men in patterned tights and girlish tutus; decorative hats of all shapes and sizes; retired drunkards back at it again for one last hurrah.

It was as if the whole city, Irish or not, came out to celebrate its true colors — the good, the green and the bad.

The green, of course, was everywhere, on clothes, in makeup and in beer.

As for the bad, well, I vaguely remember some sour girl from California in the bathroom of Blue Goose Cantina, who felt bold enough to tell me that “Texas is a bullshit state” for no real reason, which is weird because I imagine she ended up among all this drunken debauchery by choice and not force. Sucks to have been her, the only person on the block with any shame, be it outwardly or inwardly aimed.

And the good? Well, I made it out alive with my pride relatively intact, my iPhone unshattered, and all my credit cards right where I left them.

The rest of the day was mostly just a blur of Instagram photos, rain and questionable smells. Well, those things, plus the realization that hanging out with that many drunk people in that small of a space isn't necessarily a good time as the day drags on.

Honestly, I don't remember too much. But I remember that.

Which is enough to know that, while I guess I'm glad I experienced it once, I'm not so sure I need to experience it again.


















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