I’m not superstitious. I’m not afraid of black cats (no more than I’m leery of other cats, which sort of freak me out because they act like they know things that we don’t — and they’re not sharing); I walk under ladders without a second thought; I step on cracks in the sidewalk with wild abandon. And the only thing that scares me about Friday the 13th is the movie franchise.
So it was with more than a little surprise that Superstition Saturday arrived. It was one of those days when I’d swear I was working for a guy named Murphy and that his word was law. Consider the evidence — West Coast girl dealing with major East Coast family issues; two-and-a-half hours on the freeway to cover 30 miles; and a bigtime faux pas involving a cell phone, butt dialing, and the other party getting an (unintended) earful of unflattering comments. Still with me?
That brings me to lunch at a cafe, where I placed our order and paid for it at the counter. The teenager behind the counter gave me my receipt and the little number stand to place on my table so that the server could bring our food over. The number? 13. No, really. What?
“With the day I’ve had,” I said, “any chance I can get a different number?” He laughed and then, when he realized that I was scary-serious, he gave me number 91.
I thought my luck for the day had changed for the better. Until I thanked him and he said those three dreaded words: “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Never a black cat around when you need one.
© 2012 Claudia Grossman