Ever since I got a black eye in 8th grade on St. Patrick's Day, I've always had a superstition about not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day.
If you're looking for some dramatic story where I valiantly stood up to a bully, you will be let down. The real story is that a backpack, thrown by a friend of mine, accidentally fell onto my face. While that might sound like a domestic violence incident covered up a by a fall down the stairs, this is the whole truth. I can't remember why I was lying on the floor or why the backpack was flung in my direction, but I do remember the shiner I had to show to show to my relatives in Selma, Alabama during Spring Break.
Coupled with some moments of physical pain on other St. Patrick's Days where I forgot to wear green, I've always remembered to wear green on this particular day. That is, until this morning.
When I wake up at 4am (yes, 4am) Monday through Friday, I have a pattern. I must first turn off my clock radio, turn off my cell phone (so the back-up ringer doesn't go off), get dressed, have breakfast, pack a lunch, and walk Victory. And I leave my house before 4:30.
Sometimes, but not always, my brain is not fully functioning with all this movement. Unless I had laid out a green shirt to wear, I most likely would have not remembered to wear something green.
Maybe this is a sign of me letting go from more things from my past. But I must admit I plan on taking Victory out for a run, shower, and go out with Matt for a drink, and I plan to wear a green shirt. Green's my favorite color, anyway.