When I made the big leap from Detroit to New York City on my 23rd birthday, I completely underestimated the cost of living there. The only place I could afford was a women’s residence. I loved the location right by Central Park but the strict rules mirrored prison life. No smoking (which didn’t bother me because I had managed to avoid that habit.) No alcohol (not even a glass of wine in my own room.) Worst of all, no male visitors (that included pizza delivery men.) I was surrounded by young women with raging hormones. My friend Sarah and I hit the town on St. Patrick’s Day anxious to connect with the opposite sex.
St. Patrick’s Day in New York City was like another world. A big parade, men with kilts (they were too drunk to care that it was a Scottish thing) and fountains of green beer. We wondered into an Irish pub. “Sweet Home Alabama” blasted from the speakers. Before we could sit down, two men approached us. One was tall and skinny with bright red hair and matching freckles. The other was a built like a linebacker with curly brown hair. He winked at me and smiled, “Can you tell that I’m Black Irish!”
As the only African American in the bar, I was suddenly self-conscious. I couldn’t tell if he was flirting or being a jerk. I relaxed a little when he offered to buy us drinks. His friend asked us what we did for a living.
“We’re nuns,” Sarah blurted out.
The skinny one frowned and turned his attention to a woman in a mini skirt standing by the doorway.
The stocky one seemed intrigued. “How long have you ladies been in the convent?”
“Four and half months…” I sighed. “We’re not really nuns, but we live in a place where no men are allowed.”
He took a swig of his beer and grinned. “So that means you’ll have to come back to my place!”
I wasn’t surprised by his boldness. New Yorkers had the courage to speak their minds under any circumstance.
“That’s not going to happen tonight or any other night,” I said.
Sarah and I walked home surrounded by people buzzing with the St. Patrick’s Day spirit. I realized that I was happy to stay abstinent until the right man broke the spell.