Irony. Who doesn’t love a good irony? So let me ask you. If you could choose one of these to be in your basement, which would it be? Fifteen men, who also have daily access to your kitchen, garage, and guest bath? Or an animal, let’s say for sake of argument, a wood rat (Neotoma floridana)?
Now, you may first think, a rat of course. Just trap it and remove it. Snip. Snap. Done. But what if it was dead and decaying somewhere between the floor boards or the walls and you couldn’t quite tell exactly where? Then which would you choose?
Let’s review the pros and cons.
First, men. They don’t smell nearly as bad as a dead animal, but they are busy working, which mean they are alive and wandering about, so there’s that. However, they do go away at the end of the day. The rat, on the other hand, is creepy and smells really, really bad and, once deceased, never goes away.
Unfortunately I didn’t choose. Hence, the cruel gift of irony. I got them both. After just three glorious days of celebrating the reclamation of my basement from the men (I even baked a cake), my elation was stopped dead with a four-legged tenant moving in—permanently.
Sometimes it feels as if God is just messing with me. I get a taste of what heaven is like, but not for too long. Then I am slapped back into reality. I can just picture God laughing and saying, ”Trish, silly girl, remember your basement isn’t yours. Either is your car, your house, your job, or anything you own. You are merely the steward of these gifts.” So, maybe I’m not going to win this battle. Maybe my basement is forever meant for something greater than myself. Or rather, maybe my life is meant for something greater than my basement. Until then, irony stinks.