Spring is coming, and you can tell because green has overtaken both the frozen snow banks as well as the greeting card section at CVS. Green and Saint Patrick’s Day…two things that seem to go hand in hand here in the United States.

Unless of course you must be that person and note that blue is a closer approximation of Ireland’s national color. It’s true; I learned this once while on a tour of Dublin Castle. The tour was lead by a Dutch woman who started off by welcoming us in Irish. So maybe all these years we’ve been wrong here in America: Saint Patrick’s Day should have us dressing up in sparkly blue leprechaun hats and Chicago should be dyeing its river….blue.

“Go home, Megan, you’re drunk. And take your Scottish ale with you.”

What I’m attempting to say is that the month of March, the start of spring, and Saint Patrick’s Day collectively add up to all things Irish over here in the new world. At least that’s how Ireland has come to be interpreted after a century-plus invasion of transoceanic immigrants.

Not that the two holidays are comparable, but I liken March 17th’s version of Irish culture to that of a Russell Stover white chocolate bunny at Easter. While a filament of truth joins holiday to manifestation, the end product is often something derivative and fairly bland in flavor.

Every year here in America, I glance at the décor of Saint Patrick’s Day with only a passing interest. It makes me smile, but I don’t decorate my cubicle at work with shamrock garlands. Further, I feel no desire to get anywhere close to a drinking establishment on March 17^th because it’s often just as bad as going out on New Year’s Eve to experience amateur hour.

I’m a real killjoy, aren’t I?

You may disagree, but I’m not saying this to claim some sort of authenticity over my dear friends who will be dressed like a tricolor in just a few days. Heck, I still wear a Claddaugh ring, my apartment is decorated with 35mm stills of Dublin, I grew up watching only the finest in Sean Connery Disney movies about Ireland, and I have owned a copy of Ulysses since college that I’m still too intimidated to read.

I’m just as much the drugstore version of Ireland as anyone else around here.

But still, on March 17^th, I will do my own brand of celebrating. I might slice up some Irish soda bread and perhaps pour a can of Heinz beans on top—just like I did as a poor college student. I’ll think about the South Leinster Street café where I once worked, and I’ll smile as I remember the women who made me listen carefully in order to catch side-of-the-mouth witticisms that were served up alongside a fruit scone or cup of Illy cappuccino. Those are days that I truly treasure.

And I’ll think about my crazy flatmates, the ones who like me came over from America to study in Ireland. The redheaded Irish-American who would step dance for us in the kitchen at midnight, the Korean-American who had amazing style and practically diversified the island back in those pre-Tiger days. I’ll think about our flatmate from the North—the one who folded us Yanks into her social circle and encouraged questionable behavior like gate crashing college balls by just showing up at the front door of the Shelbourne Hotel in our finest frocks. Those, too, were great Irish days.

So I guess what it boils down to is that Saint Patrick’s Day can mean whatever it is that you want it to mean. Wear whatever the heck you want, and by all means go and purchase that bag of Guinness potato chips whose manufacturing still continues to confound me days later. After all, this is America—and after what feels like an eternity, we have finally outlasted a decidedly colorless and mean-spirited winter. It is just about the right time to spend a few days celebrating whatever it is about the color green that makes us all smile. Enjoy yours and I’ll be enjoying mine.