Thirty three

It was my birthday last Wednesday.

According to the authoritative, women in China are advised to chop a piece of raw meat 33 times behind the kitchen door on their 33rd Birthday to ward off bad luck. I have not done this though I was tempted. I have noticed, over the years, that I am becoming slightly superstitious with age. Most people get wiser but…

I have been reading up on superstitious thinking because things like an apprehensiveness of the number three are quite inconvenient. The instinct to try to assign meanings to things when we’re feeling uncertain is, apparently, not uncommon. There is a bizarre and flawed logic in trying to make a quite scary and ambiguous world feel safer by deciding that, if you avoid the number three or remember to touch wood, everything will be okay.


Apparently a few other people have been concerned about turning 33 because that’s the age that Jesus died at. I have to admit that I am yet to see the import of that parallel but it’s nice to know that it’s not just me who can sometimes be a bit crazy.

I guess I just have to keep reminding myself that you can choose to ignore some thoughts.

And that, if the start of my year is anything to go by, 33 might actually be pretty okay.


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