Who's Counting?

It's a funny thing when you are capsulizing your life in broad strokes to someone who doesn't know you particularly well... Skipping the details that make all of your decisions make a bit more sense, you tend to cover the highlight reel, hit the key points that are generally accepted as important but sometimes the story seems more odd than you thought. And you're the one who lived it.

This happened to me recently. Talking about the big relationships I've had in my life, I named three. Partner #1; short, tragic, painful, leaving indelible marks that although faded, pop up every now and again. Partner #2; longer, stable, generally happy relationship that ended in mutual, respectful agreement. And Partner #3; you know all about that one.

There are several ways to interpret this bird's eye view (relationship-wise that is). Some people say you get one true love in your life, someone who will sweep you off your feet and with whom you will, of course, live happily ever after (I blame Disney for this... stupid 'princess being rescued by prince charming' story lines setting little girls up with the notion that a man will take care of them and men with the equally twisted notion that their only role in the plot is to save the woman). Clearly I've messed that one up because after three tries, Disney and I have agreed to disagree.

In Sex and the City, Charlotte decided that we all get two true loves (a convenient conclusion after the failure of her first marriage). Although not a popular view of love, it's an agreeable perspective given most peoples' situations. Still not looking good here because clearly I've over-shot by one.

And then there's the sporting reference. Three strikes, you're out. And like everything sporting, this connotation does not work for me. At all.

So what's left? Am I done? Had my chance, roll up the rug, turn the lights out and start collecting cats? No. I don't buy into that either.

Four. Four leaf clover. Shamrocks. Luck of the Irish.

Now there's an idiom I can get behind!

There Is Superstition

I have blissfully enjoyed the last 10 days, stretching every moment as far as I could.  Trying to be as present in every act and action as possible because as I have already noted, this time will pass. 

What is the source of my acute attention to the passing of time?  Vacation, of course.

As I sit here on a beautiful, summer Sunday afternoon my mind has already begun wandering to the details of my life that occupies the greater balance of my day-to-day existance not to mention head space.  And as my thoughts meander and as I begin to plan for the week ahead of me, I find myself performing tasks of preparation that can only be described as acts of superstition.

Mine is not a career filled with common superstitions.  I am not an actor; "The Scottish Play" to me will always be just plain MacBeth and "break a leg" seems to me to be a most odd wish for luck.  I am not an athlete (colossal understatement here) so I do not wear the same undergarments (I am trying to be polite) the entire time that I am enjoying a streak of success nor do I leave myself unshaven for extended periods during "the playoffs."

I am a simple gal working in a large organization taking care of my piece of the cog.  But I do, as I am now paying attention during the fleeting remains of my vacation, have my own personal superstitions. 

I pack my laptop bag before dinner, not to be better prepared for the morning but so I can enjoy the last evening of my weekend (or in this case my vacation) assured that the troubles and concerns of the upcoming week are securely tucked away without opportunity to disturb my peace.

I have prepared my lucky suit.  Knowing what I do about the upcoming week, I feel the need to don the suit that has seen me successfully through challenging times at my workplace in the past.  It provides me a small but significant boost of confidence and even if things go badly, I know I will manage with surety and serenity cloaked in my linen armour.

So as I finish my pre-work superstitious preparations, I am off to enjoy my Sunday night dinner out and to drink a toast to a hopefully, successful week to come.

Knock on wood.