Dear God of Irony,
You’re very funny. Very funny indeed. And, oh, so present in my life.
Normally, I don’t believe in the finger of God stirring the pot of our everyday existence, directly influencing or causing anything we do. Perhaps there is room for believing that you exist, however, as one of many minions of the more passive supreme being you work for. Among your peers might be Fate, Synchronicity, Serendipity, Symbolism, or Metaphor, to this literary thinker. Your partner in crime would seem to be Fate.
As Fate and Irony, you profit from the fact that I fell on my back down the stairs of my house with my 38-pound dog in my arms, a carrying routine we do to try to spare her back pain. I sustained injury while the dog was completely unharmed. Well done.
You’re especially funny to me because at least I didn’t break anything, just popped out a couple of ribs the chiropractor readjusted. If I had broken my back, well . . . you would still be active as who you are, just not as funny, at least not to me, for the death or paralysis, assuming life ends at death and I want more life, which I do. (My spirit might otherwise find my death amusing, for all I know.)
I can laugh at myself now that my sides don’t hurt as much and give you a mental wink or tip of the cap for your performance. I can take your work as a sign and interpret that sign in whatever way I choose, to your added glory–or not.
I recognize you, though, because of my education. I learned about you in school. Because of that, I can also use you for creating this post, which you helped to delay, just as you have used me–I’m sure you had your reasons, or at least your fun.
But I can’t embarrass you, can I? Not as you have defined my embarrassment. And I certainly cannot cause you actual pain, for you are not a physical being. I could try to shame you for your meanness, for being a party to causing my pain, for making me seem like the fool, which, of course, I am.
Still, I just can’t help but love you despite–and for–your joke at my expense. Without you, my life would be just a touch less meaningful and certainly less interesting.
You’ve got me where you want me, there’s no escape, and you can re-emerge at any time to put your stamp on my next foible. Without being able to prevent this, all I ask is that you and your buddy Fate deal gently with me. I can take the humiliation. I’ll get over it and maybe eventually laugh again. But let me heal fully, please, if you have any say in the matter, and let not my death (whenever it happens) become a mere symbol, a portrait of your splendid presence.
Splendid though it may be, in its way, it could still spell permanent shame and embarrassment to me, through the destruction of others’ faith in my intelligence during life. I’d rather not go anywhere near the Darwin award list.
I’ll try not to look for you, though I suspect I’ll have trouble refraining, for I know you operate on your own terms and need no encouragement. I’ll leave you to your work. Just have a little mercy on me, and I will continue to sing your praises for fulfilling your purpose so aptly. Deal?
Thanks for being you.
P.S. Elyse (the dog) sends you a tail wag of approval, too.