They say bad things happen in threes. For a long time, I didn't believe it. Bad things happen in other numbers, too. Ten, for instance. There were ten plagues. Two is also an option. There were two world wars, no matter how many times sci-fi writers latch onto the intriguing, proverbial prospect of a third. Bad things can happen in ones, too. Mononucleosis. You can only have mono once. (In other news, I just figured out why "mono" is such an appropriate prefix). Lately, however, I have become somewhat of a believer. When I arrived in Paris this weekend, I was at number two. Number one was the week long shenanigans surrounding my apartment disaster. Number two was getting my credit card information stolen. I'm not sure how it happened, but someone managed to spend $1500 of my money on airline and train tickets to, from and potentially around Peru. Whilst in Paris, wandering around the Cimitière de Montparnasse (where you can find Jean-Paul Sartre, Marguerite Dumas, Eugène Ionesco, and Ricardo who I thought was a very loved cat but turned out to be a person who just really loved cats, as made evident by the very large, very porcelain, and very colorful cat that marked his grave), I mentioned to Yanie and Michaela that I hoped having two buses drive straight past me without stopping on Friday morning might have constituted number three. Yanie reckoned no. She was right.
While exiting the metro on Friday night, lighthearted for being in the presence of women I love and excited for the bar we were heading to in the Marais, I skipped happily into the waiting arms of a Gendarme (I recognize that this is an incorrect use of the term, but I'm appropriating it here for dramatic effect), all uniform and stern face. He would like to know if I could please show him my validated ticket. I could not, thank you very much, because I had thrown it away, I'm so sorry, Monsieur. This was a lie. In fact, I had not bought one. This is besides the point. This particular bout of being-in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time cost me 40 euros and my good mood.
However, as I stalked angrily up the stairs of the metro station, I found myself unable to wallow in my misfortune. In fact, as we walked along in the crisp (read: a little too cold) Parisian air, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I was done. My bad things had come in threes and I was finished. I considered buying a lottery ticket. But then, as I sat in the Quatre Etages (thanks to Margot for the find) with my girl friends and my snifter (I've always wanted to use that word) of delicious, if over-priced, Amaretto, I realized that I have all the luck I'll ever need.
Of course, I now find myself compelled to knock on wood for writing an entire blog post tempting fate. There. I just did. Superstitions exist for a reason and I've decided it's time to take advantage of the opportunity to relinquish a little control to fate or luck or karma or this counter top which I've just realized is not wood at all but vinyl. In the meantime, I'm going to go find something wooden.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment