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Ironic
By Alanis Morissette
Warning: This Song Contains No Actual Irony
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It Could Happen To Me.
A friend of mine once perfectly distilled my cumulative
experience as a human being into a single sentence when he said,
"Your life is a like a Ben Stiller movie." Not the kind where he
portrays a zany or eccentric character like in Dodgeball or Zoolander, however.
No, I'm referring to the ones in which he plays the rigid straight man who is
simply trying to get through life in a painless fashion but is instead
blindsided by a series of chance mishaps that proceed to eliminate any
possibility of that ever happening. Think Meet the Parents or Along Came Polly.
A chain of events occurred recently that only serve to confirm this rather
astute observation and to uphold the fact that my life inevitably seems to unfold
with a degree of coincidental misfortune and ironic tragedy that is ordinarily
confined to Shakespearean theater and episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
I'd like to preface this story with a short but related anecdote- a doleful
appetizer, if you will, to my entrée of despair.
At the beginning of this school year I declined an opportunity to buy a parking
pass- the weather would be warm and pleasant for quite some time, I thought to
myself, and I could simply rely on walking or riding the COTA to fulfill my transportation needs. Armed with the knowledge that the price of a pass continues to decrease with each
passing month, I resolved to wait until the start of winter quarter to obtain
my permit, when the frigid temperatures and crowded buses truly merit such a
purchase.
Left without a permit for the entire autumn quarter, however, I was forced to
develop a rather creative parking strategy, squatting in loading zones for up
to thirty minutes at a time or driving past blocks of meters until I found a
recently abandoned space with time still remaining on the clock. Unfortunately, I
have not been blessed with the same good fortune as my aforementioned friend
(who parked illegally on campus with impunity and somehow managed to always evade detection), as I
received within the span of a few weeks two parking tickets, costing $35 each,
for a total fine of $70, which I paid in full to the Ohio State Department of
Transportation and Parking. And yet my plan, in forgoing the parking pass until
January, was to save some money and, as renowned game show host and germaphobe
Howie Mandel would say, "to make a good deal". The cost of a
"C" parking pass at the beginning of the year? $210. The cost of a
parking pass in January? $140. The savings after eleven weeks of sacrifice? A
grand total of exactly....$70.
But wait--this wayward train keeps rolling in what I shall call- in keeping with my rather trite and poorly formed dining analogy- the main course of melancholy.
***
While this January 3rd was undoubtedly an important milestone for many political
commentators and a multitude of Iowans, the date is significant to my life for only
one reason: on this day, following a quarter of parking discreetly and
returning to my car with an overwhelming sense of dread, I was finally buying a
parking pass.
The OSU Department of Transportation and Parking maintains its headquarters in 160 Bevis
Hall, which, for a reason that currently escapes me, is located far from campus near the agricultural center of the university. After stopping for
directions in what appeared to be a building dedicated to continuing education
for old people (gross), I found my desired destination and parked outside. And que
buena suerte! I found a parking meter far from expiration, which would
cover the cost of my final fare. Heading for the building, I looked back
longingly toward the meter one last time- it was a tender and bittersweet moment
for the two of us, for our quarter-long relationship had finally come to an
end.
Returning my attention to the prized parking pass that awaited me, I walked
inside Bevis Hall with a sense of insuppressible excitement- a feeling that was quickly laid to rest at
the sight of the long snake-like line that was wrapped around the corner and
out towards the exit. This departed feeling of enthusiasm slowly transformed
into one of excruciating ennui upon my realization that the line, in defiance
of its swift serpentine appearance, was moving at no more than a snail's pace.
In the midst of my boredom, I noticed that the man in front of me was here to
pay for a parking citation. My mind started to wander- what if this man was
forced to wait in this sluggish line for so long that his parking meter expired
and he was issued a second parking ticket by Transportation and Parking while
attempting to pay for the first inside the department's own headquarters? I
could picture him returning to his car, thinking himself free of all debts to T
& P, only to find another ticket and immediately marching back
inside to make an additional payment, which would certainly be a difficult task
considering the lengthy wait. And what if it didn't end there? What if the
process repeated itself over and over again, creating an infinite regression of
reappearing citations and never-ending lines? I imagine this is what purgatory
is like for people who work for the DMV.
I was stirred from my musings when after nearly an hour of waiting I heard a
voice call out to me like an angel from the heavens, "Next person in line
please." A rather curt and discourteous angel, it seems, but a delightful
one nonetheless.
After a number of formalities involving license plate numbers and local
addresses, I was finally in possession of my precious pass! She handed me the
parking permit and instructed me to have a nice day. Oh I will, unusually
slow-typing secretary- today is the dawning of a new age. An era free of fear
and guilt, when men will pull confidently into parking spaces and never return
early from adventure and/or yoga class to "fill up the meter".
Exiting the building with my shiny new C-pass in hand, I felt unable to control my
jubilation. "Hooray!" I thought to myself, "What a great feeling
this is, knowing I will never have to pay another parking ticket ever again!".
I walked toward my car, fumbled through my jacket pocket until found my keys,
and proudly unlocked the vehicle. But as I approached the driver's side door of
my valiant steed, ready to adorn its nape with my beautiful new permit, I
noticed a glint of something shiny out of the corner of my eye. Freezing in mid
stride and feeling my blood run cold, I slowly turned my neck to the left and
took a gander at my windshield, straining my eyes for a closer look. And lying
there, coiled underneath my wiper blades like a python ready to strike, was
this:
The cost of a new parking permit? $140
Adding the cherry atop a lifelong sundae of poignant irony: Priceless.
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