Ironic

Over the Christmas break we had a family discussion about what "irony" is and is not. Is it, in fact, ironic for it to "rain on your wedding day"? (No.) Or "a free ride when you've already paid"? (Eh.) Or "ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife"? (Totally not.)

But what is ironic is tripping over a safety cone. And by tripping I mean all-out-face-flat-on-the-ground-both-hands-outstretched-palms-down trip at 5:30am just outside the doors of Reagan National Airport.

As I laid there trying to figure out if I could feel all my fingers and toes a TSA Agent ambled over to ask, "you all right m'am".  And then he wandered off as I mumbled, "I think so" and hauled my sorry butt up to go catch a plane to Grand Rapids Michigan in January. Which, in and of itself, is sort of like a mind all-out-face-flat-on-the-ground-both-hands-outstretched-palms-down trip every single Monday morning.