Lisa Goldberg Brown
In the late 1990s, St. Patrick’s Day meant finding the cutest green thing you owned, squeezing into low-rise jeans and committing to shoes that would absolutely betray you by 10 p.m. but looked fantastic in photos.
We were in our twenties. Plans were loose, loud and entirely dependent on who answered their phone first. “Where is everyone?” “Wait, we’re switching bars?” Somehow we’d all converge in the same packed place, shouting over music and holding plastic cups filled with something glowing and vaguely lime-flavored.
We didn’t question the drinks. We didn’t question anything. If it was festive, green and under $5, it was basically a civic duty to order it. There were feather boas, shamrock beads and at least one person in a novelty hat with the confidence of a Broadway lead.
Photos were taken on disposable cameras, meaning you wouldn’t see them for a week—and when you did, you’d immediately realize you made the same face in every single shot. Wide-eyed (or caught mid-blink). Mouth open. Living your best life and also maybe slightly sticky.
Getting home was a team sport. Someone always knew a cab number by heart. Someone else swore they were “totally fine to drive.” We’d land in bed late, wake up mildly wrecked but still able to rally for work as if nothing happened. Our recovery time was elite. Our tolerance for nonsense was high.
Fast forward to now, and St. Patrick’s Day starts with a scheduling negotiation worthy of the United Nations. “I can do Thursday.” “What about earlier in the day?” “I need to be home by 9.” After dozens of texts, we agree on dinner—at a reasonable hour, in a place with good lighting and comfortable seating.
The outfit is still green, but now it’s elevated. A cozy sweater, flattering jeans, and shoes described as “actually supportive.” We care about style and circulation.
We meet early, order real cocktails, and immediately ask what’s in them. Sugar content matters now. So does tomorrow morning. Someone orders a mocktail “just to pace herself,” which is the adult version of wisdom.
The conversations are deeper and somehow funnier. We’re talking about aging parents, perimenopause, and why none of us can drink coffee after 2 p.m. anymore. We laugh just as hard, only now we occasionally pause to stretch something that suddenly feels tight.
We still take group photos, but now there’s an inspection process. “Wait, my eyes are closed.” Retake. “Is that a shadow or a wrinkle?” Retake. Friendship means insisting everyone looks amazing and also retaking until it’s true. We make a pact that no one will post unless we all agree.
By 8:15, we’ve all silently checked the time twice. By 8:30, someone bravely says, “I might call it,” and the collective relief is immediate. No one is disappointed. In fact, we’re proud. We had fun, stayed comfortable and will wake up tomorrow without needing electrolytes and an apology tour.
We head home, text to confirm safe arrivals, and change into pajamas like it’s the best part of the night—because honestly, it is.
The celebration hasn’t changed. We still love the excuse to get together, laugh loudly and wear something green. The only difference is that now we do it with better shoes, better drinks, and significantly better exit strategies.
And truly, that feels like winning.
Lisa Goldberg Brown is writer and mother of three college-age children. Her writing reflects the humor, heart and perspective that come from surviving the late 90s and early 2000s in NYC and raising a family into adulthood.
