I’m wicked superstitious.
I do not step on sidewalk cracks or pick up pennies that aren’t heads up. You won’t find me anywhere near the underbelly of a ladder. The number 13 is all the more ominous because its digits (1+ 3) equal my unlucky number 4. I don’t remember exactly when 4 took on that role in my life but 4s and multiples thereof are to be avoided. Well, except 12 because 1 + 2 = 3, which is my lucky number and has been since Steve Sax won Rookie of the Year in 1982.
Don’t even get me started on baseball. When the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 it was all due to an elaborate block building routine Jack and I had before the start of each game. Picture frames aligned on the mantle? Check. Lucky underwear? Check. Unlucky t-shirt? Chuck.
It was suggested I remain indoors today. I replied with, “you mean my house with the AC that malfunctioned just as temperatures soared north of 90?” In this same house where I retain ownership of a broken mirror (with about 3 of the 7 years bad luck worked off) in my bedroom because it’s possible (though unconfirmed) this is the same mirror my great grandmother peered at herself in everyday for 60+ years?
(Now that I think of it, maybe the broken mirror in my bedroom reflects what’s wrong with my sex life.)
In the spirit of progress, I have relaxed my position as it relates to black cats. I mean, I love cats. And one moved in down the street from me, so we had a little talk the other day, came to a mutual understanding, and she won’t cross my path if I don’t look at her with disdain.
As for addressing today, 2013 has been one giant Friday the 13th, so bring it on. My fingers are crossed everything will be fine.
