I wouldn’t call myself superstitious. I’m a rational adult. However, whenever Friday the 13th crawls onto the calendar, I develop the situational awareness of a gazelle in a lion sanctuary.
I can’t blame my parents for this specific brand of neurosis. My father didn’t raise me to fear the date; I did that all on my own through the power of “Dirty Socks.” Back in high school, if we had a game on that cursed Friday, those socks stayed unwashed. I didn’t care if they could stand up on their own and challenge me to a wrestling match—they were my cotton shields against bad luck Friday. I’d also double down on “lucky cookies,” essentially trying to bribe the universe so my performance wouldn’t end up in the dumpster.
Academic challenges were even worse. A math test on the 13th? Please. I might as well have handed in a paper covered in mustard stains and hangman drawings.
I’d love to tell you I grew out of it, but my “rationality” just got more ridiculous. As a lawyer, scheduling a trial or a court hearing on Friday the 13th is essentially asking the judge to find your client guilty of something. And the racetrack? Forget it. If a horse is starting at the 13th pole, that animal won’t leave the gate. In fact, I’m not sure I ever won at a racetrack. If I can successfully navigate the grandstand, consume a corned beef sandwich and a beer, and return home with a single, lonely dollar in my pocket, I don’t call that a loss—I call that a miracle.
It’s hilarious how one little square on a calendar can turn a grown person into a shivering orphan. Thankfully, the universe only inflicts this on us a few times a year.
But seeing a Friday the 13th pop up during Lent? That feels personal. It’s like the devil saw us trying to be pious and decided to throw a little spicy chaos into the fish fry. It’s the ultimate test of faith: believing that God is in control while worried about a black cat crossing your path.
13 is a lucky number in Brazil. So just go to Rio on the next Friday the 13th.
Good plan. Want to go with me?