Dramatic Irony
I hate irony. Absolutely loathe it, but especially so when I have no control over it.
Yesterday morning, I woke up with the sun streaming through the windows. The leprous pigeons of New York City, with all their charming deformities, were cooing outside. It was truly a beautiful day, and I felt like I'd slept on a bed of goose down and marshmallows for twenty years.
And then I turned to the clock, which proudly told me it was 10:05. Class had started five minutes ago.
While swearing myself into oblivion, my thoughts turned to excuses. If my years in school taught me something, it's that nothing assuages guilt like a good excuse. You begin to believe in it, as though you genuinely were suffering from the dreaded 'Pekinese Twinge' that morning when you woke up 45 minutes late and decided to read the back of the cornflakes packet for another 15.
So my first plan was simply to say I was ill and stay home for the day. As the minutes ticked by, this plan became less and less attractive. Say I was ILL??? The worst excuses are sometimes the most believeable ones, I told myself. (Not sure why.) So I then thought I'd concoct a hilariously fantastical story that would still allow me to burst into class 40 minutes late and sit down without receiving any reproving looks. As I pulled on a pair of jeans and my new jacket (I got it for $70 at Macy's...long live Macy's) I decided I would invent a yarn about getting locked out of my apartment.
Ha ha, I thought, genius! It just might work! I got locked out, had to run to see the superintendent to get back in, it's a great story, people will laugh and I'll get off scot-free!
Of course, upon arriving at the Journalism School building, my brain got a dose of reality. Here I was, a 23-year-old graduate student at a prestigious university, about to pull out the most ridiculously immature made-up excuse since Charles X defended his invasion of Algeria by claiming that the Algerian Bey had given the French Ambassador a "bit of a dirty look."
So I climbed the stairs, opened the door to my stunned class, and sat down as if nothing was wrong. Later, I simply told my professor the truth: I'd overslept. Everything went fine and hunky-dory.
So this morning, imagine my surprise when I actually DID get locked out of my apartment. I'd just got out of bed and waddled out of my apartment in a pair of purple boxers, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt (ask your dad) and an odd pair of argyll socks to grab the New York Times sitting on the landing. I remember holding the door, letting it softly rest against the lock, and then hearing it go 'click' when I bent down to pick up my newspaper.
How bloody ironic.
As in any embarrassing emergency, you spend about five minutes trying to register who could help you. You then swallow your pride and realise that as there are no bells on the apartment doors, you're going to have to go down to the ground floor and ring apartments from there. Knowing your luck with God, everyone will have left the building to go to a nearby Free Jam And Wodges Of Cash festival, leaving you to stand mournfully by the door in your underwear and today's paper.
Thankfully my flatmate WAS in, although obviously it involved standing in the cold at noon in my underwear. I just looked like one of those uncaring guys who regularly walks around in public either naked or barely dressed. And obviously, again because of my luck, the only people who saw me were the Beautiful Nymphomaniac Dancing Divorcees of Belize, who would otherwise of course have invited themselves up to my room for a camomile tea and a spot of bondage.
Anyway, just wanted to complain for a bit. Most New Yorkers just stand on street corners and vent their rage at strangers, so I'm not too far gone yet.
Yesterday morning, I woke up with the sun streaming through the windows. The leprous pigeons of New York City, with all their charming deformities, were cooing outside. It was truly a beautiful day, and I felt like I'd slept on a bed of goose down and marshmallows for twenty years.
And then I turned to the clock, which proudly told me it was 10:05. Class had started five minutes ago.
While swearing myself into oblivion, my thoughts turned to excuses. If my years in school taught me something, it's that nothing assuages guilt like a good excuse. You begin to believe in it, as though you genuinely were suffering from the dreaded 'Pekinese Twinge' that morning when you woke up 45 minutes late and decided to read the back of the cornflakes packet for another 15.
So my first plan was simply to say I was ill and stay home for the day. As the minutes ticked by, this plan became less and less attractive. Say I was ILL??? The worst excuses are sometimes the most believeable ones, I told myself. (Not sure why.) So I then thought I'd concoct a hilariously fantastical story that would still allow me to burst into class 40 minutes late and sit down without receiving any reproving looks. As I pulled on a pair of jeans and my new jacket (I got it for $70 at Macy's...long live Macy's) I decided I would invent a yarn about getting locked out of my apartment.
Ha ha, I thought, genius! It just might work! I got locked out, had to run to see the superintendent to get back in, it's a great story, people will laugh and I'll get off scot-free!
Of course, upon arriving at the Journalism School building, my brain got a dose of reality. Here I was, a 23-year-old graduate student at a prestigious university, about to pull out the most ridiculously immature made-up excuse since Charles X defended his invasion of Algeria by claiming that the Algerian Bey had given the French Ambassador a "bit of a dirty look."
So I climbed the stairs, opened the door to my stunned class, and sat down as if nothing was wrong. Later, I simply told my professor the truth: I'd overslept. Everything went fine and hunky-dory.
So this morning, imagine my surprise when I actually DID get locked out of my apartment. I'd just got out of bed and waddled out of my apartment in a pair of purple boxers, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt (ask your dad) and an odd pair of argyll socks to grab the New York Times sitting on the landing. I remember holding the door, letting it softly rest against the lock, and then hearing it go 'click' when I bent down to pick up my newspaper.
How bloody ironic.
As in any embarrassing emergency, you spend about five minutes trying to register who could help you. You then swallow your pride and realise that as there are no bells on the apartment doors, you're going to have to go down to the ground floor and ring apartments from there. Knowing your luck with God, everyone will have left the building to go to a nearby Free Jam And Wodges Of Cash festival, leaving you to stand mournfully by the door in your underwear and today's paper.
Thankfully my flatmate WAS in, although obviously it involved standing in the cold at noon in my underwear. I just looked like one of those uncaring guys who regularly walks around in public either naked or barely dressed. And obviously, again because of my luck, the only people who saw me were the Beautiful Nymphomaniac Dancing Divorcees of Belize, who would otherwise of course have invited themselves up to my room for a camomile tea and a spot of bondage.
Anyway, just wanted to complain for a bit. Most New Yorkers just stand on street corners and vent their rage at strangers, so I'm not too far gone yet.
posted by L.R.A. Laurent at 12:12 PM
2 Comments:
Mate, you said it yourself - you're 23. Plus you're paying for the course. The way I see it you're therefore full entitled to wonder in an hour late for every class in your dressing gown dragging a dead badger. Really, I think you ought to do that.
The Venerable Bede has just read his own comment and apologises for the poor spelling of the words 'fully' and 'wander'. There doesn't appear to be an edit facility and the Venerable Bede would hate for people to think him an oaf.
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