St. Patrick’s day is a time of green-tinted madness where much can get lost in translation—and I don’t just mean bad Irish accents, or slurred drunken words.
Sometimes messages of the heart lose their way, and The Journal is here to help untangle some of the wires.
If you think you’re the special someone mentioned in one of these anonymous stories and want to the writer, e-mail [email protected].
***
This Paddy’s day was the best one yet, but there was only one thing missing…the love of my
life. Now, I use this term lightly, as he doesn’t know he’s the love of my life. At least not yet.
For some background, we met during Frosh week, when everything was perfect in Kingston and time was still on our side. He’s tall and charming, with brown hair and a face you can’t forget. Our banter and connection was strong from the beginning, but the problem is I never ever see him.
We run in different circles here at Queen’s, but I always look forward to big holidays like HOCO and Halloween because, despite the busy nature of these kinds of days, we always seem to find each other. I assumed Paddy’s would be the same, where Aberdeen St. mixes upper and lower year students all into one all-consuming crowd.
At exactly 1 p.m. the green smoke bomb appeared in the air, initiating the ginger run, I watched Aberdeen St. part like the Red Sea. I lifted up my head, ignoring the gingers frolicking around me, and instead stood on my tippy toes trying to see if he was around. This day, of all days, I thought luck would be on my side. But still, the love of my life was nowhere to be seen.
With a month left of school and graduation around the corner, I’m starting to wonder if we’re meant to be… or just meant to miss each other. So, Queen’s students, just like we have HOCO and FOCO, could we please do another St. Paddy’s themed day this weekend? Perhaps we could call it FADDY’S? If fate won’t bring us together, then maybe a few more green beers will…
***
It was somewhere between my fourth and fifth Guinness when I saw her. Or maybe I imagined her. The whole day had been a blur of shamrocks, bad Irish accents, and questionable choices. The kind of St. Paddy’s where time dissolves into the foam of your beer.
I was standing in what felt like the longest line in history, waiting to get into Ale. The guy in front of me was already swaying, singing “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” way off-key. That’s when she appeared—right beside me, wearing an oversized green sweater and a ridiculous headband with bouncing leprechaun antennas.
“We’ve been in this line forever,” she joked, grinning. She had the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. Like, really green—unnaturally green. Too many St. Paddy’s drinks kind of green.
We talked. Or shouted, really, over the chaos of the street. She was visiting from out of town. She’d already lost her group but wasn’t too concerned about finding them. She asked me what the over/under was on actually getting into this bar before the world ended. I told her I’d bet my next drink we’d get in.
Five minutes later, she pulled my sleeve. “Screw this line. Let’s find something better.”
And we ran. Literally ran—down the street, dodging stumbling crowds and bagpipers. We ended up at a tiny, packed pub where a band was playing Galway Girl. She pulled me onto the dance floor, spinning under neon shamrock lights like she owned the night.
At some point, we ended up outside, sitting on the curb, sharing the last of her flask.
“This is the best St. Paddy’s I’ve ever had,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Or maybe it’s the worst. I can’t tell yet.”
She checked her phone. Dead. “I should find my friends,” she sighed. “But maybe I don’t want to.”
I was about to ask for her number, but just then, a group of ginger-haired guys in kilts sprinted past, screaming something about a Ginger Run. She gasped. “Oh my God, my cousin’s in that. I have to go.”
She stood up, wobbling slightly, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and before I could say anything—she was gone. Vanished into the sea of green, lost in the madness of St. Paddy’s.
I searched for her the rest of the night. I even went back to that stupid long line at Ale. But she was nowhere. No name. No number. Just green eyes and the ghost of Guinness on my breath.
And now, every St. Paddy’s, I will find myself looking for her. Just in case she’s out there, wearing a ridiculous leprechaun headband, waiting in another long, impossible line.
***
Nothing screams St. Paddy’s at Queen’s more than being in a random person’s backyard with hundreds of other people—some characters from first year and some total strangers—mud on your shoes, and a lukewarm vodka water in your hand that you’re not entire sure is yours.
Somewhere between the pounding bass of the band playing a questionable cover of “Back to Black” by Amy Winehouse and someone attempting to do a keg stand off a tree branch, I saw him.
We’d met once before—barely. A Halloween party in second year. He was quiet, kind of sarcastic. I thinking he had a really great smile, but he disappeared after my friends, and I popped into the bathroom.
Anyways, there he was five feet in front of me with a beer in his hand laughing with someone I vaguely recognized from class. Same smile. Same easy charm.
The band switched to “Mr. Brightside,” because of course they had, and people were screaming the lyrics and pushing to get closer.
Before I could talk myself into making a move, the crowd surged, and just like that, he was gone—swallowed up by a sea of green jerseys and plastic bead necklaces. I shouldn’t have waited so long but I did. Oh well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be.
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