It may surprise you to know this, but I am very superstitious about New Year’s. It’s true. Me!
My superstitions are not based on ancient history. They didn’t come from ancient ancestral rituals. They do not pop into my head based on numerology.
Nope. I earned my superstitions. And it happened, like many transformative events in my life, in the 1980s.
It was a terrible year, 1981. I’d been sick, hospitalized. My dog died. I broke up with a boyfriend of 5 years whom I’d expected to marry (he hadn’t given that much thought). I got sick again. And then again. I was spending the Holidays in un-Christmas-sy Florida with my parents and my brothers. Florida, where the palm trees were decorated and where Santa would have perished from the heat wearing all that fur.
By Christmas, I was toasting the arrival of 1982 at Christmas dinner.
“Whoa, Lease,” said my Dad, “one Holiday at a time!”
“I can’t wait,” I responded. And then I uttered those famous last words:
“Next year has to be better.”
Don’t ever say that.
Because, in fact, 1982 was worse. Way worse.
I got sicker. And sicker. I got broke and broker. I tried to commit suicide in the stupidest way and in the silliest place imaginable.
I had to have major, new, just-beyond-experimental surgery.
There were good parts about that year, of course. My friend Keily and I became roommates and fast friends. We’re still close. 1982 was also the year I got Goliath, the Goose, whose craziness kept my sanity in check. Well, sometimes.
But overall, the year I expected to be an improvement, was anything but.
Yeah, I learned in 1981/1982 to be careful what I wish for. Because you never know what’s ahead.
Don’t Jinx It!
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(Google Image)
Happy New Year to all of you. And if you’re looking for a simple way you can celebrate that costs nothing, look here.
FiftyFourandAHalf 