Isn't it ironic that the very best part about going away is coming home? As cliche as that sounds, I believe it to be unequivocably true. The ten pound brick was lifted off my chest as soon as we started the engine and I got absolutely giddy once we could see our own city's skyline.
My redemption this relative filled weekend was escaping into my book. Isn't it ironic that an unused bandage became my bookmark. Reading was definitely the salve on my blisters and bruises this weekend.
Isn't it ironic that the more I learn about people, the less I understand them. It's also ironic that spending more time with others can make me realize how much I really don't know them or myself for that matter.
Isn't it ironic that the whole time I was watching the fireworks last night, I was wondering, "Is this the finale?" Instead of enjoying each colorful explosion for what it was worth, I was too busy worrying about when the show would be over. That is such a metaphor for life.
I find it ironic that my hubby drives our minvan like a racecar. He speeds up to slow down. Gas, brakes, gas, brakes, gas, brakes. It is also ironic that the feature I most resisted (dvd player) was the one that made the ride most enjoyable.
Isn't it ironic that there were so many things I thought were ironic until I got on my computer.
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