Superstitions are so dumb. If it were true that every time I stepped on a crack it would break my mother’s back, then I would have been grounded a lot more in high school.
I don’t believe in them and yet, I knock the windshield each time I drive through a yellow light. I lift my feet up over train tracks, hold my breath while coasting past a grave yard and I never fail to cross my fingers while walking underneath a ladder. For someone who had a few mildly obsessive habits as a child (let’s not get into those now) I suppose there’s something in the ritual of these superstitions that I subconsciously once enjoyed. Now I do them completely on autopilot, much in the way you might say “God bless you” after a sneeze.
I am extremely conscious, however, of the clothes, shoes, and bits of jewelry that are irrefutably unlucky and have the unmistakable power to ruin my day.
Once I was given an absolutely beautiful bracelet from a friend with a small pendant that hung from the underside of my wrist. While wearing said bracelet over the course of the month several bad things happened to me, from spilling red wine all over a favorite white dress to my car’s battery draining to getting a speeding ticket. As soon as I pinpointed the problem (which was obviously not me), I ripped that bracelet off A$AP Rocky and chucked it in the trash.
Reversely, there’s a sports bra I own that is guaranteed lucky. I wore it to every competition I had one season because I kept winning. And obviously you can’t wash a lucky object, so you can imagine how great I smelled.
My signet pinky ring has been known to bring on good fortune, so I panic when I forget to put it on (like today!!!). I have a pair of pants that I’ve never had a bad night in, a shirt that’s propelled me through various job interviews, and a necklace that I always seem to be wearing on my very best days.
There’s something to be said for the Space Jam Theory, or if you want to get technical about it, the idea of self-fulfilling prophecy. When we elect something as our good luck charm (Michael Jordan’s “Secret Stuff”, for example), it bolsters our confidence which can only lead to good things. And I suppose this works in reverse: that when I declare a bracelet bad luck, still choose to wear it, and then get shit on by a pigeon, it’s probably because I set myself up for scenarios that could have otherwise been avoided…like standing under the telephone wires of death by Central Park.
Actually, bird poop is supposed to be lucky, right?
So maybe the whole thing is bull crap.
Now what about you?
– Amelia Diamond