I'm not a betting gal. Unless you give me a jar full of pennies and send me down to Mountaineer Race Track & Gaming Resort in West Virginia. Then I'll hit the slots 'til the last of the copper is sunk.
As I was mentioning, I'm not really a huge gambler. I would wager, however, that there are many a folk rising late this fine March morning - and with a fairly good-sized headache, too.
Because, as you may have heard, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. And, while I'm all for the wearin' o the green, the makin' o the corned beef and potatoes, and the commemorating of the day good old St. Pat drove all the snakes from Ireland, I'm not so much for the whole green beer scene.
That's not to say I don't think it's a fine tradition. Me Irish half has certainly enjoyed a wee bit of bubbly from time to time back in the day. My theory is, if you're of legal age and not driving, slainte! (That's "cheers!")
However, the good Lord has granted me enough sense to realize I'm getting a bit long in the tooth to be partaking in what many consider to be the traditional St. Patrick's Day celebration of drinking until you're green as a leprechaun the next mornin'.
And 'tis truly a sad, sad thing when you come to the awareness that you are, indeed, too old to party 'til the cows come home.
Or even until their curfew.
How do you know? Well, it's tough to gauge since it's so subjective and - everybody is different.
But one indicator that you might want to re-think that fourth shot of Crown Royal is that you've moved onto the age bracket of maturity. You know what I mean.
For many a survey, study or even gathering, there are the segmentations known as age brackets that separate constituents. Whether it's for a 5K run, a medical history, or even a credit card application, you generally have to check a little box indicating age as a requirement to participate / complete / be considered. The further to the right your box is, the more you might want to reel in the partying.
Heck, even a new faction at church discriminates.
"We're asking the younger members of our faith community, those between the ages of 18 and 40, to sign up for this fun, new group," said our pastor recently.
Kerry and I exchanged a sheepish glance of acceptance: we are officially not young.
Another reality check about your youth (or lack thereof) comes in the form of virtually any and all remarks by your children. For instance, when Kyle saw me putting on my knee brace before a run the other day, he asked why I never take off without it.
"Well, I have bursitis, and it really helps," I heard myself say aloud - a move I immediately regretted.
"Bursitis! Isn't that caused by, like, old age?" he laughed ... all the way up to his room where he was sent for the next hour.
Whippersnapper.
Other indicators that you're not far from your Golden Buckeye card include: a deep hatred for the "spring forward" time change, waking up hung over after a night of drinking Sprite, and understanding the genius in going to restaurants for the early bird special.
"I mean, we beat the crowd," said my friend Nancy Haskins of Liberty, defending her choice to dine at 4 p.m. last week.
It's OK, Nance. I'd have met you there but I was napping.
Happy recuperating from St. Paddy's Day, all!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist. Contact her at the crack of dawn, by which time she's been up for three hours, at pkimerer@zoominternet.net.