I was at a fun party on Saturday night, dancing poolside with the ladies while overlooking the Manhattan skyline, when I realized that two friends had left without saying goodbye. Now this is one of my trademark moves, because I hate a long goodbye. I can't stand it, actually. When I am ready to go, it comes on suddenly and strongly, and I want to get the hell out, never mind the niceties. I like to "phantom," as my husband calls it. This becomes difficult when you have children to extricate from games of running bases and swimming pools, and a husband who has been bred to never appear rude. I mean, I'll thank the host, but then I'm out.
I confronted my friend about her unannounced departure and she referred to it as "The Irish Exit." I immediately loved the sound of this expression, so I looked it up online. Apparently it arose to describe those times where you've had too much to drink, so you leave discreetly before your friends can confiscate your car keys. There's even a Facebook page devoted to The Irish Exit, where fans contribute their own stories of Irish Exits. They all seem to be about getting completely wasted.
Damn. I hate an Irish ethnic slur.