Americans and the Number 13
Despite the unlucky digits in the name of our new year, I have hopes for 2013. Perhaps I was 13 years old before I realized that most Americans are “creeped out” by the number thirteen. One can’t help but wonder where the phobia began. Did a mother have a perfect dozen when her 13th child sent her over the edge? I refuse to reduce the new year to only two possibilities: lucky or unlucky. Naming this entire year as unlucky would restrict our thinking and limit the possibilities for happiness.
Why not expect more from this year than any other? Why not expect a wonderful amount of joy, pleasure and fulfillment as we pursue life’s demands and complete our responsibilities? We are leaving 2012 solidly behind, which for me was a troublesome year with a dozen anomalies of middle-aged milestones, an empty nest, and several painful goodbyes.
So you can see, I step, I leap, I fling myself into 2013 with total abandon into the arms of God who carried me out of one year and into the next who is never boxed in by labels and cares not which digits are placed side by side to name the white boxes on the calendars on our walls.