Some days are just plain ironic. And wet.

The first time you get drenched in the rain as you sprint from the door to your car (which, by the way, is less than 30 feet) and back again (due to a tornado warning), you have a pretty easy time laughing it off despite the fact that you’re wet and cold. (Maybe it even reminds you of an oh-so-common scene out of a movie: pouring rain, drenched girl, boy shows up, both drenched, tears mix with rain, resolve conflict, kiss in the rain, rolling credits). It’s easy to laugh off getting drenched the second time you dash out to your car (that is, as long as you have access to warmth and a towel to prevent the onset of a summer case of hypothermia) – the irony is that you just put a dry shirt on.

You drive home (in yet another downpour of rain from suspiciously green skies, dodging 3 burst storm sewers and gliding through 8 inches of sitting water in some intersections, mind you) and your car is rattling, again, making a noise it wasn’t making last week before it went into the shop. So, once more you take your car to the shop and wait for someone to pick you up. There goes your afternoon nap, and you’re still sitting in wet jeans (at least the repair shop has chocolate in their candy dispenser).

Finally, you’re clean and dry and warm, the wet jeans discarded and a fresh pair put on after a hot shower. Your family goes out to dinner, and just before you order your little brother knocks over his entire adult-sized glass of coke. Where does it go? Not hard to figure out – all over your clean, dry jeans, of course. So, for the third time that day, you’re sitting in wet jeans, and now you have the added pleasure of being sticky. Your little brother managed to not just get the front of your jeans wet, but the back too, and, honestly? That takes talent (although it’s probably not a talent worth pursuing if he has any desire to live to his next birthday).

For a moment you’re just stunned, not sure what to say or do, then you go the restroom and try your best to soak up the coke, but really, it’s quite hopeless until you can take them off (which the restaurant might have a problem with you doing). You return to the table, look your brother in the eye, and burst out laughing. What else can you do? It seems to be your lot to be wet, and rather than let it ruin your day, why not choose to enjoy the irony? Plus, perhaps it’s a sign from God that perhaps you should wear a raincoat for the rest of your life.

After dinner, you go out dancing and pay 8 bucks to sit there for an hour and a half and only get asked to dance 5 times. That boosts your confidence (maybe they all have an instinctive feeling that if they dance with you’ll they’ll end up wet, which is quite possible – remember Pooh Bear and his personal rain cloud?). You’ve got a headache, and you just want to go home and crawl into bed while you wait for your boyfriend to call.

Your car is in the shop (remember?), so you drove your dad’s sleek but finicky 6-gear stick-shift car. You get in. You buckle up. Turn on the car, klutch down, emergency brake off (because you’re parked on a slight hill and you have a fear of your car rolling away without you. Or with you), ready to shift into reverse…But wait, the stick won’t go into reverse. Nope. You try for 5 minutes, your frustration growing and tears threatening to pour like the rain (yes, rain) outside the car. No luck; the gear will go into 6th but not reverse.

By this point, you feel like a complete idiot (who can’t get a car in reverse?)? You call your dad, who has no answer but to come help you (at least you can be thankful that he wasn’t already in bed as he usually is, and that he didn’t laugh in your ear). So you sit, for 20 minutes, in the dark in the car as the rain patters outside the window. It’s at this point you have the choice to laugh or cry, but right now you’re so tired and slightly sick of irony that all the emotion wells up inside and overflows down your face (notice that once again, you are wet; while not quite drenched, you are still wet).

Your dad finally arrives to save the day. Of course he is able to get the car in reverse right away. Your feelings of total idiocy are short-lived, because when he tries again it takes multiple tries and a lot of jamming (possibly some choice words, too). Obviously this proves something is definitely wrong with the car, not you (well, that’s slightly debateable, but don’t dwell on that).

Once safely at home, indoors and dry, you sit at the kitchen table, share your woes, and have a heart-to-heart with a your dad over a midnight snack (for you – ice cream. For him – a cream cheese peanut butter pickle sandwich. You don’t ask). Your confidence level goes back up as he does what any good father does – tells you the boys are the idiots and won’t ask you to dance because you’re strong and confident and beautiful.

And between a half hour of cherished late-night conversation with your dad, and getting to talk to your boyfriend before you fall asleep, you fall asleep laughing wryly inside at the satiric irony of the day. Tomorrow is a new day – and no rain is in the forecast!

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