The traditionalist in me was nagging, like always, to write a column about St. Paddy’s Day. Though I admit to being slightly cliché at times, just a wee little bit, let’s just say I didn’t want to — yet again — conform to the norm. (Yes, you Lowellita cynics and critics, I know that is a cliché, but I was trying to make a point and/or be funny. It’s part of my job description, I think.)

There is really no need to retrogress into yet another column about the number one amateur night of the year and all that blarney. I thought blasé ramblings about consuming too much green beer and a tough piece of meat might bore my more intelligent readers — minus the emerald food color squirted into carbonated beverages for a festive mood, that pretty much sums up every Friday night in Lowell.

Everyone gets it. The 17th of March is a free pass to get loaded, sing out-of-tune U2 songs, pass out on some random couch, wake up the following morning without your shoes or socks and an overwhelming feeling you might have some apologizing to do to more than one person. Happened to me a couple of weeks ago and I didn’t even need a holiday as an excuse to come down with the Irish flu.

Here’s a warning: Watch out! It can be contagious and it’s a slow road to recovery, so proceed with caution.

On a side note, I found my kicks, but my socks just seemed to have vanished. Anyone discovers a pair of purple zebra print trouser socks, you know where to find me. And though I am no Bono, I can belt out any U2 track with the best of them. It’s not that difficult to scream at the top of your lungs after garnering a buzz, “Hello, hello! Hola! I’m at a place called vertigo.”

Somehow this entire column digressed into a rant about the Emerald Isle’s celebrated holiday even though the intent was to avoid it at all costs. But we’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day and if you can’t beat ’em — join ’em.

Cheers!

Lowellita apologizes for all the clichés and advises you to rotate between beer and water this weekend. E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.