New Year’s Eve is often referred to as Amateur Night. Most people that go out for libations and entertainment regularly prefer a nice steak dinner and a night of catching up on their Netflix queue at home to temporarily jacked up restaurant prices and driving on city streets with inexperienced revelers.

I feel pretty similarly about going out on Saint Paddy’s Day. Besides seeing too many people wearing awful shades of green (a color which only looks good on a very small percentage of the population), everyone seems to over-indulge.

Many pub patrons act as if on a mission to consume as much beer, corned beef, and Irish soda bread as possible. It only makes sense that, along with the day after the Super Bowl, March 18^th is practically a national holiday for calling in sick from work.

Though not a red-letter day on my calendar, I agreed to join a few friends at a nearby Irish pub for an evening of music, a traditional buffet, and a pint o’ Harps.

I vowed I would enjoy the spirit of the evening as long as no one sang “Oh Danny Boy.” (I’m sorry, but that just too damn hokey Irish for me.)

The highlight of the evening was the bagpipe troop. At 9:30, the Emerald Society Pipe Band toured the bar; playing a couple numbers in the two dining rooms then an extended set in the behemoth tent which was set up for the holiday to accommodate over 300 at tables and chairs.

They challenged us tent-dwellers to sing along as they squeezed out America the Beautiful then went into a very traditional rendition of Amazing Grace.

Enjoying the rare opportunity to hear kilted musicians play this classic outside of a funeral for a Chicago cop or firefighter who lost their life on the job, I felt compelled to announce, “Well, at least nobody died.”

I understood that my friends weren’t privy to the internal set-up for this comment, but they got it well enough and we all laughed.

It made me think about my penchant for making jokes in the moment. Not that I’m insensitive to people or situations, but I like to make jokes.

Many years ago, a friend once described this habit as a defense mechanism Obviously, she didn’t relish, as I do, the ability to lighten things up. Sometimes, it seems, lightening up starts by going to a dark place.

At the end of 2014, I drove into the side of an apartment building — in the middle of the day, only a couple hundred feet from where I lived. Did the floor mat interfere with my left foot’s path to the brake pedal? Was I going too fast crossing train tracks before I had to make a sharp left turn into my alley? I don’t know.

Friends that wanted a neat and tidy explanation for the accident asked me what happened. In a serious tone, I replied, “I tried to MOVE the building, but I couldn’t.”

I found great perspective from bringing humor to this difficult circumstance.

Years ago, I remember trying to assuage a friend’s feelings while simultaneously thinking he was working himself up unnecessarily.

I told him, “I’m not laughing AT you. I’m laughing WITH you.” Pointing to a spot some distance away, I added, “but from over there.”

I don’t know where some of my quips or rejoinders come from, but I am so glad my observations of life come with captions that make me laugh. My humor has helped me get through many challenges.

Milan Kundera, the famous Czech author, wrote a book titled The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I actually think it would be unbearable BEING if you couldn’t infuse your days with some LIGHTNESS and LAUGHTER.

Learning to bring lightness into your life is no small thing.