What March Means To Me

They say, “March comes in like a lion, out like a lamb,” but we all know sometimes that is not the case. Many times March comes in and goes out like a lion, especially if Punxsutawney Phil happens to see his shadow on February 2nd. Therefore, I presume March is the month when people may seriously begin to contemplate the climate of their chosen locale. After a few months of the bitter cold, and maybe seemingly never-ending snowfall, how could a sane person not at least consider other options of residency? There’s a reason why those itching to take a reprieve from the elements of winter tend not to visit the Midwest or the East Coast during Spring Break.

I enjoy the change of seasons as much as the next guy, but consecutive months of icy roads, slushy sidewalks, shoveling snow, and a constant runny nose is just too much. Give me the desert in March a hundred percent of the time. I know in Arizona I won’t be needing a parka or thermal gloves to make it through the day. As much as I’m fond of the desert, I think my happy place actually is at the beach. Even though I can barely swim – and only for about a minute before I sink – I thoroughly enjoy the sights and sounds, and the tranquility the beach has to offer. I like to be near the water, not in the water.

It doesn’t really matter where I’m at on March 17th … the day will be celebrated! This is mostly what the month of March means to me. How can anyone with a last name like mine not feel obligated to embrace the fanfare of St. Paddy’s Day? Unfortunately, I’m not as Irish as I once thought I was (thank you ancestory.com) but I’m certainly more Irish than the countless posers who deceitfully take on an Irish identity only one day of the year. I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on those blatant impostors since I identify as Mexican every Cinco de Mayo. That means the 5th of May, to all the Spanish challenged people out there. I better stop joking about my fictional Mexican heritage because I can’t afford to have any more suspicions regarding my true cultural identity.

I suspect there are some who already question the validity of my Irish roots. I’m not Catholic, so I’m sure I’ve lost some Irish street cred along the way. It’s also not too far-fetched for people to have some doubts about my cultural legitimacy when considering my imbibing choices. As someone who considers himself a beer snob and a newbie whisky connoisseur, I have great trouble enthusiastically downing a pint of Guinness or a shot of Jameson Irish whiskey. (Fun fact: The spelling of whisk(e)y depends on where the product originated. For example, in Canada, Scotland, and Japan it’s whisky, but in Ireland and the U.S. it’s whiskey.) How can one be taken seriously as an Irishman, when he does not care for the liquid staples of his homeland? On top of that, I find the traditional shepherd’s pie and corned beef and cabbage to be just meh.

However, I truly do enjoy the party atmosphere and the shenanigans of St. Paddy’s Day. I like the wearing of green and the accompanying infantile “pinch factor.” I like the shamrock decorations, the leprechaun look, and congregating with my kin. And I love the sounds of Celtic Woman and the taste of my famous Guinness cake. (I guess Guinness is good for something.) At the end of the day, I am indeed part Irish, and I have the DNA test to prove it (thank you ancestory.com). So, this is what March means to me. What does March mean to you?