my lucky day

When the numbers and the days of the week align just right and Friday the 13th appears on the calendar, many people experience a feeling of dread. There is even a word for that specific fear: paraskavedekatriaphobia.


But is there a word for people like me who actually LIKE that day?

Known as someone with an unusual knack for bad luck, one would think that I would be justified to stay in bed on such an ill-fated day–with the covers pulled up over my head until the safe light of Saturday peeked through the windows. But for some reason, I am drawn to the day–almost like a personal anniversary of sorts.

Back in my college years, I was in a terrible car accident on Friday the thirteenth. My little red Toyota Camry was struck nearly head-0n when a rusty work truck did a U-Turn on the highway. Of course the collision causing truck was not licensed, and the illegal alien driver was not insured. My car was held captive in the auto body shop for the entire semester, being re-injured twice while waiting patiently for its restoration–a shop worker drove the bumperless car into a telephone pole on the repair lot, and then a few weeks later the windshield was smashed. I sported a rather unattractive neck brace for much longer than fall fashion would allow; and of course, this was all during the semester I decided to live quite a distance from campus.

Sometimes the unexpected can be devastating. Which is why, I suppose, I kind of like Friday the thirteenth. Now, I don't get me wrong–I don't tempt fate by walking under ladders while petting a black cat or anything like that. It's just a day I don't have to look over my shoulder for the storm clouds rolling in, or an anvil falling from above...I just kind of expect it. So the pressure is off, and my anxiety can take a holiday.