Generally speaking, I’m not a superstitious person. I don’t pay attention to black cats or walking under ladders or spilling salt. (I make an exception, however, when it comes to sports teams — in which case I believe in jinxes, karma, cruel fates, and the undeniable reality that everything I do has a direct and profound impact whether my favorite teams succeed or fail.)
I don’t worry about bad luck on Friday the 13th, either. Why? Because on Friday the 13th of October, 1978, Kish and I had our first date. We went to Dick’s Den — its evocative motto: “Why Not?” — a campus bar and live music venue on High Street. We drank beer, sat for part of the time with another couple that happened to be there, and listened to a band that didn’t require a cover charge. Obviously, I was a big spender who knew how to show a girl a good time.
So, I have no fear of this dreaded day. How could I be superstitious about Friday the 13th? It certainly hasn’t meant bad luck for me.
