In Defense of the Irish Goodbye

There is a panic that sets in exactly 12 minutes before I actually leave a party. It’s not because I’m tired or because I’m worried about traffic. It’s because I have to mentally prepare for the Farewell Tour.

You know the tour. It requires finding the host, interrupting their conversation, making a vague promise to "do this again soon," and then waving to the room like a politician stepping off a train.

I used to think this was just good manners. But recently, I realized it’s just a desperate plea for object permanence.

I am terrified of the Irish Goodbye—the act of slipping out the back door without a word. My brain rejects it. It screams, "If a Michael isn't acknowledged, does he even exist?"

If I leave without the fanfare, was I ever really there? Or was I just a background extra in someone else’s Friday night?

To be clear, I don’t expect people to weep and rend their garments when I grab my coat. I’m not a monster. But I admit, I am fishing for that specific, flinching look of disappointment. I want the "Oh no, you're leaving already?"

It’s a nice feeling. It’s an ego biscuit. It confirms that my presence provided value.

But here is what everyone forgets about the Long Goodbye: Eventually, you actually have to leave. The door closes. The warm glow of the porch light cuts off. And then you are just a person walking alone across a dark lawn to a cold car.

That transition is violent in its quietness. You get in, the door thuds shut, and suddenly you are in a vacuum. There is nothing left to confirm you actually happened.

Inside the house, the music is still playing. The laughter didn't stop because I left; the ecosystem healed over the hole I left instantly. And there I am, sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for the defroster to kick in, wondering if the last three hours were real or if I just hallucinated being interesting.

That silence in the car doesn't have to be a void, though. If I stop panicking for a second, I realize it is actually a receipt.

We didn't just get access to the moment; we got to imbibe in it. We helped structure it. For three hours, my jokes were the load-bearing walls of a conversation. My listening was the foundation for someone else’s story.

But the building is finished now.

The anxiety of the "Irish Goodbye" is just the ego trying to convince me that I am the party. That if I disconnect, I disappear. But that isn't true.

Leaving is the final act of acceptance. It is acknowledging that I am bigger than the moments I inhabit. I can step out of the frame, and the picture remains beautiful.

So next time, I think I’ll just slip out the back. No fanfare, no farewell tour. Just a quiet nod to the room I helped build, and a peaceful drive home knowing that Michael exists, even if no one watched him leave.