When optimism becomes realism, a love of irony turns into a safety net. The intricacies of every day life adding up to something unexpected serves to kindle hope in the idea of change, be it in ourselves or the world around us, allowing a slight smile to hold volumes more meaning than an offhand jovial guffaw or a fist raised to the sky. And, as much, it makes us question whether there may be something beyond what we understand in our day-to-day life, some grand designer pulling strings and pushing levers, or whether a strange order simply happened to form out of chaos around us. Whichever irony may be, it's fascinating. Here's a prime example:
My great-aunt Joanne was a steel magnolia in the truest sense. As a child, I would go to her house and play on the rusty swing-set, collecting bugs and going on tiny adventures, like children do, all the while oblivious to the immensity of this tiny woman. She had been "old" from the day I was born, so her frailty seemed more definitive, rather than the truth, which was that she was the mater familias, the patron mother of my family. She was the hub of the group, all things that involved our last name being passed by her, as though she were a Don of a Christian mafia.
"Vote Republican and call your mother. No, I'm not asking."
I didn't really see this side until I began visiting her after I'd left the Marine Corps. Every couple of weeks I'd drive down and have a meal with her, touching base to find out how the family was, what they were doing, and what was expected of me. She'd tell me a few old stories about her late husband, of the politicians they knew and what life was like so long ago, all the while holding a prim posture that one might take when they're staring down the devil in contempt, not offensively, only that she couldn't be bothered with nonsense. At all. So I'd listen to her stories dutifully, then when the time came for me to leave, I'd hug her and say I loved her and she'd respond as she closed the door "Okay. Goodbye."
And one day she got cancer. Over the span of several weeks, her hard exterior began to fade in time with her health. And though she wouldn't let me visit her after awhile, I still called her every week or so to find out how she was and tell her I loved her. Still got the same response.
"Okay. Goodbye."
And then, one evening, she told me she loved me, too. And that's when I knew I wouldn't be speaking with her again. Two days later and off she went, into the void and out of our lives.
Now, let's switch gears for a second. There was a show that used to be on the Cartoon Network years and years ago called "Tim and Eric's Awesome Show: Great Job!" that was a sketch comedy show filled with entirely strange moments shown in incredibly strange perspectives, each sketch transitioned by non sequiturs so random that by the time you realized how crazy it was, the next sketch was starting. Sophomoric, gross, random and absolutely hilarious, I watched this show as often as I could.
Just trust us...
One of the recurring characters for the show was played by John C. Reilly, an extraordinary actor who's been in movies such as Gangs of New York, The Thin Red Line and Boogie Nights. He played a character named Dr. Steve Brule, an oafish quack with no filter or real world experience. It's pretty amazing.
So, two days after my aunt Joanne died, I was watching an episode of Tim and Eric's Awesome Show: Great Job! and this happened:
And then they went to the next sketch.