Irony. One definition says it is “something humorous based on contradiction,†and I would have to agree about the humorous part. Here’s an example from my life…
The other day I purchased a magazine because it promised to give me a bajillion tips on how to organize my exasperatingly unorganized house. I browsed through the suggestions and out of the bajillion ideas found maybe, maybe, two I will maybe, possibly, if-I-get-around-to-it, use.
After reading the magazine I sighed, imagined that someday I’ll get my act together, and then gently tossed the periodical on top of a pile of books I have alongside our bed. That one slim volume toppled the stack as though a sixteen pound bowling ball had hit it. The result appeared as a miniature Stonehenge in our bedroom—minus the druids of course. The chaos was enough to send the cats running for cover and filled the air with formally content and lazy dust balls. That’s when the irony hit me. My organizational magazine just unorganized my bedroom. Well, okay. A stack of books does not equal organization per se, but for me it’s dang close.
In the same line of thinking, I wonder why my permanent press clothes have tags that suggest using an iron as needed. They are not labeled “temporarily pressed clothes,†or clothes that will “sorta-kinda pass for pressed if you get them out of the dryer the second the buzzer goes off.†Hunh uh. I don’t know about you, but like the snooze alarm on my alarm clock, I let the dryer buzzer go until it gives up in frustration. “Everything in the dryer is permanent press, so why rush in?†I think, until I unload the Shar Pei-looking heap that was once individual shirts and pants.
Maybe I should have gotten to the dryer faster, but hey! I’ve got stuff to do…like read magazines on how to organize my house. Now if I can just remember where I put it after I restacked those scattered books…
