WHAT NOW?

| October 3, 2017 | 0 Comments

Knock-Knock, Spit-Spit

“Knock-knock, spit-spit?” Okay, I just dated myself, yet again. But that’s what we did – or said – in the face of wishing for good luck, or averting bad luck. Not both, not together, you understand.

Anyway. I found four pennies in one day – all tails up.

Bad luck! You realize that, don’t you? I wondered, asked I of the Gods, whether that many pennies, that much bad luck, could really have been intended just for me.

Maybe such a trove was meant to be spread around. Like to Eric Prebys, say, son of Conrad, the renowned philanthropist whom we had admired for his many generous gifts. None, however, to Eric, who was left giftless upon his father’s death and claims that he has “absolutely no idea” why. Ouch. That’s some wrong-side-up penny, especially in the face of a $1 billion estate.

One might have been meant for Jeff Sessions, our beleaguered attorney general, who has had the bad luck – to say nothing of bad judgment – to serve President Trump. And, who has declined to resign even in the face of the boss’ rampage of humiliating tweets. Well, Mr. Sessions has – or had – been on some fund-raising ventures, so maybe he needs the money, though tails-up can’t possibly improve his career.

Now that Sean Spicer is happily (?!) on the speaking circuit, he might be thinking his penny has finally landed heads-up, but …things are just not that simple anymore. So … his former boss’ inaugural audience took a back seat (so to speak) to the Emmys? Or … it didn’t? Can’t anyone take a joke anymore? Ah, Sean’s penny has been ensured: despite being applauded by Trump, who was, finally, a sport of sorts, too much of the world, Twitter, etc., still wrist-slapped him for his “poor taste” and other more serious, supposed sins. “Oh, lighten up,” he responded. Although surely counter-intuitive, that light-of-heartiness might earn him the next bad-luck penny.

I’ll concede that all the pennies could really have been left for me, although you probably know I’m a nearly perfect person. That doesn’t mean, of course, that bad luck won’t honor my perfection, and might lie in wait for me, anyway. So I’ve mused over the possibility that my recent broken and sprained ankle, quickly followed by my smashed, two-surgery wrist, met in competition with the Mr.’s own medical crises, which relegated mine to mere scratches… well, let’s not underestimate that heads-down penny.

Good luck, y’all. And don’t go callin’ me “superstitious!”

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