Henry Abbott

My distant Irish heritage, bestowed upon me from paternal great-grandparents I’ve never met, has left me with few connections to the Emerald Isle—namely, a love for Irish literature, fair skin that burns at the first touch of sunlight, a vaguely Irish surname and a Claddagh ring placed upside-down on my right-hand ring finger true to code.

However, there is one other trait of which I am often guilty that falls under the Irish label: the infamous “Irish goodbye.” While I am unaware of the origins of the term or whether there is actually anything distinctly Irish about it (it is also known as the French Exit, Polish Exit and Dutch Leave, but for the sake of theme we’ll stick it with the Irish), it is a trademark of my social life at Bowdoin College.

The Irish Goodbye, or Irish Exit, involves leaving a party without alerting anyone to your departure or even saying goodbye. While some profess the impoliteness of the move, introverts like me find great pleasure in the quiet escape. I cannot defend this action, as it yields frantic or disappointed texts from my friends when they turn their backs for one second and see that I’ve vanished into thin air. (I’ve unfortunately gotten quite good at this.) But for some reason, I return to it again and again.

My proclivity for the Irish goodbye is often accompanied by comically short appearances at parties. If I enter a packed party and the vibe is not to my liking—which, let’s be real, it often isn’t—a subconscious timer immediately begins, and within five minutes I’m out running the streets of Brunswick. (It’s faster that way and produces a certain thrill.) The quiet emptiness of the suburban streets after dark is a welcome embrace following the noise, sweat and claustrophobia of a college party.

While friends echo concerns about the overstimulation of these events, I am always filled in the next morning on their extended late-night shenanigans. As obvious as it is, the difference between our levels of nighttime enjoyment comes down to one thing: They stay. While I depart at the first sign of discomfort, they push through any initial social awkwardness and let the whims of the night take them wherever. As a result of this dissonance, I became painfully aware of my inability to rid myself of inhibition.

This is not to shame the social scene of Bowdoin; this is a cautionary tale about the power of the comfort zone.

This summer, I sat with a friend in Portland waiting for sandwiches as I updated her on a recent series of rough moments that had spurred bouts of low self-esteem.

Ready to move past these moments and find the growth so often touted as occurring in your twenties, I exclaimed, “This semester, I am going to say yes to anything!”

She gasped, laughed and said, “Can I get that in writing?”

As a frequent victim of my social life cynicism, her eagerness at my proclamation was no surprise. We often joked that she should bring a stopwatch to parties and not let me leave until it hit the 30-minute mark. Without realizing, I had shrunk far into the corners of my comfort zone, and it was time to come out.

At the behest of my mother, I will not be saying yes to everything à la Anne Hathaway in the 2004 musical fantasy book-to-film adaptation Ella Enchanted. Joining cults or doing illicit drugs with strangers in dark alleyways is probably off the table—for now. However, when it comes down to the choice of Irish exiting or staying awhile, I’m ready to make a change.

And hey, I even said yes to writing this.

Sara Coughlin is a member of the Class of 2026.