Who Loves Ya, 13?

I had a different post planned for today, but then I glanced at the calendar and realized—it’s Friday the 13th! And, guess what? We get another Friday the 13th in March, mwahaha.

Thirteen is my favorite number. It has to be. My birthday is January 13th, which, if you continue counting after December (and who wouldn’t?) is the 13th day of the 13th month. As I was lamenting to someone the other day, sadly, though, I was not born at 1 p.m., which would have made me a 13th hour, 13th day, 13th month baby. Nope, I was born in the evening. Irritation sets in!

For years, I thought I was born on a Friday the 13th, because my father was working out of town, only coming home twice a week, every Wednesday and Friday. My mother assured me that I was born Friday the 13th. The year I was 13, I found out, however, that I was born on a Wednesday. Yes, I’m a child of woe, which pretty much describes my adolescence and can account for all the characters who came to foul ends in my teenage short stories.

I have a brother and a sister born on the so-called “lucky” dates of 7 and 11, so you can imagine the ribbing I received over the years that I was born on the supposedly unlucky date of us three. Now, as an adult, I’m closest to the sibling who was born on a plain ol’ nothing fancy date. That’ll teach the other two.

How do feel about Friday the 13th? Are you superstititious? Do you avoid all things 13? Will you not read my books now that you’ve found out I love 13?