Friday the 13th.
Something about this date always makes me chuckle, because for the first half of my life the day to freak out about and really watch your back was TUESDAY the 13th and even though I’m date-obsessed I would still forget and suddenly realize I was recklessly petting black cats underneath stairwells while stepping boldly on a crack on the day I was supposed to be scared to do so.
Well, so here we are. Another 13th, except that the Monsieur just called me in a panic, saying he thinks he’s lost his wedding band while working out this morning.
And I immediately thought, upon hanging up, “is this because today is Friday the 13th?”
But now I’m just really sad– mostly for him, because his voice cracked and his voice NEVER cracks– and it has nothing to do with spookiness or superstition. Or does it?
HE (quite possibly has) LOST HIS WEDDING BAND, SYMBOL OF OUR MARRIAGE, ON A FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.
You try sitting calmly through that one.
I hesitated starting writing about this, as I’m quite bleary and not fully awake. Also I don’t really like blogging about things that are more on the private side without getting consent, if you will.
But I’m just sitting here, looking at the baby sleeping and trying to be rational and sending him good vibes and hopes that the gold band just grabs him by the ankle and says, “It’s cool boss: I’m right here. I just wanted to go for a spin.”
And all the while I think, does this mean anything? Are we humans just kind of screwed because we have a thinking brain– a thinking brain that overanalyzes unrelated events that truly hold no meaning until they are threadbare? Do we look for meaning because we can or because we have to, much like a beaver gets the urge to eat wood and swim in really cold water?
I remember getting his wedding band engraved and talking to him that night about it. We both laughed about the inscriptions we’d picked out and really… we were just happy, rings or no rings. I was the lucky one, for having met him –and he me– in such a dorky way because really…. blind dates? They are usually the kind of happenings that are reserved for gory horror movies or for really bad comedies. Or reeeeeeeeeeeeeeally bad/good television.
But we were lucky, and have been so far.
And to show that I wasn’t in the least bit superstitious –about our marriage, about life, or about my own willingness to keep living– I married in a red dress (“Marry in red, You’ll wish yourself dead,” quoth Victorian England).
I’ve owned a black cat.
I live in a house with a prominent number 13 on it. I don’t think I’m superstitious that way. So I’m trying really hard to not see any connection and trying even harder not to cry.
Monsieur Meow just called: the ring’s been found.
“I asked at the Lost-and-Found and they said someone had turned in a ring with ‘Rocky’ on it. I told them to let me see, and sure enough: it was my ring.”
“So did they see the inscription and realize… it was NOT ‘Rocky’?”
“No, thank goodness. Guess I’m now Rocky!”
For your edification, an article by the friendly folks at About.com on Friday the 13th. It was my companion during these past freaky moments.