Mellow/dramatic Irony

Step back in time with me, dear friend, to last Friday when I was all melancholy and weepy over the unhappy task of packing up my ex-husband's closet. I had spent the morning gearing myself up for what I might find, the afternoon finding (and folding), and the evening feeling the tiniest bit sorry for myself (hence the blog post). Saturday morning I got up before the sun to care for my neighbor's dogs, walked to her house in the pre-dawn silence that only accompanies sub-zero temperatures in this neck of the woods. When I thawed out, I re-read the post and sent it off into the wild web of the internet. Then I emailed said ex-husband about some very minor logistical details, like what to do with his baby pictures old nursing uniforms. Maybe you think this is insanity or unnecessary, but I think that the enormous hospital system that used to employ my ex-husband would appreciate keeping their nursing uniforms out of the hands of vagrants.

Shortly before teaching my first class, I got the weirdest message I've ever received, save for the several I've gotten from people I know personally offering me their semen via the internets (and that, my friends, is weird).

It started with a, “just get rid of it!” and ended with a confirmation of his general whereabouts in the Far East, but the gooey center was what made my day and turned my pity party upside down. I would love (LOVE) to include the words (or the screen capture), but I know that karma is one heck of a lady and she would bite me hard if I did such a thing. However, I will give you the general gist.

It was:

a) Clearly not intended for me

b) Of a romantic nature

c) Followed by profuse and failed apologies

(There is no “unsend” in the Facebook Messenger App).

I love that the Universe or God or Phillip Seymour Hoffman is out there orchestrating things, because Shonda Rhimes shouldn't get all the best lines. My life is indeed, hilarious.

For about ten seconds I considered crying, then burning his stuff, then throwing it down the hill, then posting his message on Instagram, then texting it to 85 of my closest friends. During this dervish-ish whirlwind, I won't say I made all of the best choices (I may be boring, but I'm no saint). And once I started laughing about it, I couldn't keep my smile off of my face. Which means I may have also shared it with a few close friends who can enjoy irony and take a lift wherever they can get it.

Stuff is ridiculous, and being upset my stuff is even more ridiculous (except when you're actively upset, and during that time it is truly heavy and weighty and angsty). And thankfully, there's a God or a screenwriter up in the sky who has a sense of irony to wake me and shake me from my darker moments and make me realize that sadness is there for contrast, for perspective, not for a second home.

And so off we go in our separate ways, him to the Far East by way of absurd messaging and me to the Goodwill and consignment store, to bury and burn our past in our own special ways.