Saint Patrick

There are some very important photos missing from this post.  They are photos of Hoosick Falls’ annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  They are missing because, even though the parade passes a mere 30 feet in front of my house, I was working and could not attend.

I have missed pretty much every important town event since I moved here.  Last year’s Memorial Day Parade was a complete accident, one through which I nearly slept, until the drummers in the marching band ripped me from my sleepy goodness.  Hand-made signs announcing this event or that event cover the telephone pole at my corner, begging me to join the party and donate to my local charitable events.  I am always…busy.  I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m cut out for life in town!

After staying awake into the wee hours, listening through my bedroom window to the drunken revelers ambling home from the St. Patrick’s Day Pub Crawl , I woke and began the tender process of baking.  I owed Patrick more birthday presents, and I’d planned to finish the project last night before I was sucked into the sitting and staring that occupies my Saturday nights.  I had limited time with which to work, as he would soon be here for lunch and dog-walking.

I’ve met plenty of people who have managed not only civil, but friendly relationships with their ex-spouses.  Perfect strangers have told me their stories, including one woman who let her ex live with her for years after he lost everything in a fire; and a man just the other day who has become “roommates” with his ex-wife–his best friend–for the financial benefits of couplehood.  Unfortunately, these stories are not the norm.  We speak in hushed tones, eyes wide, amazed to have found kindred spirits.

When I say that Patrick is my best friend, I get the strangest looks and awkward comments (from everyone but those like-minded strangers), asserting that our relationship is “weird.”  To me, there is nothing weird about it.  He was my friend when our relationship began, and we weathered a lot of difficult times as friends.  He was always loyal, kind, and honest.  Why would I let that go?  In my view, the “weird” ones are those who turn to bitterness and hatred over someone they used to love.

We walked to the local bar, down litter-lined streets evidencing a small town drunkfest.  The country music blaring in the half-empty joint made me homesick, and though I shared the thought with my old friend, I didn’t have to say much.  He knows how complicated my feelings of home are.  He also knew, instinctively, that I was still upset about Tall Boy and the hurt he’s caused me this week.  I could have talked about it.  I decided not to.  This was his birthday weekend, after all.  So instead, I got drunk.

Patrick is a good enough friend to listen to me whine about other men when necessary.  He hasn’t been a fan of any of them, but only because he wants the best for me, and he’s fully aware that so far, I haven’t found it.  He knows there will come a day–probably far, far in the future–when some other man will claim me for his best friend, and will try to marry me.  I’m pretty sure he’s cool with it…so long as the guy’s not a dick.

I  keep missing community events.  I haven’t yet become a part of the community in which I live.  But that doesn’t mean I am without a community here in New York.  I have my pets, and I have my job, and most importantly, I have my friends.  The pillar of my community is Patrick, with whom I share a neurotic dog, and on whom I lean when I need some help.  He may not be meant to be  my partner for life, and that’s okay.  In many ways, our relationship is more permanent than that.  He’s my friend.

Happy Birthday Pat!