The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

brought to you by the number 13

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An interesting number. A weird number. I want desperately to believe it's magical and sinister, but I can't say that I am totally sold on it.

I took note of the missing thirteenth floor in my grandparent's apartment building once while standing in the elevator, ascending. I was amazed that it wasn't there, that there was a void between the twelve and the fourteen, and that everyone was fine with it. My grandmother got an apprehensive look on her face when I mentioned it, looked about for flying monkeys or rapidly dropping anvils and would not discuss it until we got out at her floor. There is no number thirteen she'd whispered in the hallway, as we walked along the carpet runner of mustard and brown hexagon shapes. She warned me of the evil in the number thirteen, and I listened, rapt with each word, until I gave it some thought. Then, I decided I didn't believe her. It just seemed too cool, the notion that seemingly ordinary people were completely invested in the belief that a number could harm you. I couldn't believe the architects actually planned buildings around it, that people stayed in their houses on days with that date. I told my grandmother this and she looked as terrified as she was offended. This was a woman who believed rainbows were a bad omen, that cracked mirrors amounted to seven years of bad luck, that new shoes on a table would bring about misfortune and that a crossed fork and knife on a plate would bring on a conflict. I was amused, but I knew enough not to laugh. She took her superstitions seriously. I took them with a grain of salt, but always remembered to throw a little over my shoulder. Just to be safe.

In grade three, we had a raffle for a poinsettia plant. My teacher had everyone select a number from one to one hundred, and the kid closest would get the plant. I chose thirteen, because it was the most dangerous, the most random I could think of, and that little flirtation with the fates got me a poinsettia. I decided then that the number wasn't that bad.

As the years wore on, I started finding people who harbour a fear about this number to be delusional and ridiculous. I decided that it was the belief which was dangerous, not the number, and that anyone who subscribed to the thinking that it represented evil was not only wrong, but a little stupid. Bad things happen on every date, every floor of an apartment building has likely seen an untimely death or act of violence.

And yet, many notable people throughout history have openly admitted to avoiding the number whenever they could. Some would not conduct business on that date, others would not eat at a table with thirteen people (in Paris, the wealthy would hire a fourteenth diner if necessary), somehow tying it to the last supper of Christ who was supposedly betrayed by his thirteenth dinner companion. For every scientific argument, for every bit of outright logic, you will get someone who will defend their belief, even if they can't readily explain it.

As most people know about me, I'm curious about all things paranormal, but I've yet to get any concrete proof of evil or anything otherwordly in this life. I don't stop looking, exploring, but I sometimes find it all a bit tedious because so much of what I hear about is vague at best. Triskaidekaphobia is just as vague. But, when I consider my own life, my own experiences with this number, I have to say that it does have a bit of significance. My grandfather in Dublin died on Friday the thirteenth, something my very devout aunts took seriously. There was a fair bit of prayer that day, but to spare them from what? Death waits for us all. Does it matter which day it happens on? Still, it was a little creepy, I suppose, to have someone die on that particular day and I took note of it right away, tucking it into my 'ick' file.

My relationship with R. lasted thirteen years, almost to the day. I remember him hurling a cd at my head on the Valentine's Day before it all ended, screaming something about how he'd always feared the number thirteen, that he knew we wouldn't make it past that number, and I found myself amused by this admission. He had never been given to superstition as long as I had known him, and there he was, enraged and sorrowful, blathering about something I'd never expected to hear from him. I had always been the psychic-seer, the tarot card reader, and frankly, the idea of not making it past the number never occurred to me. I was surprised to learn that he was impressionable in the area of fanciful notion, and I have to say I found it endearing. If only he hadn't pitched 'The White Stripes' at me, we might have talked it over. As it was, though, I was stunned to consider that this was something he'd thought about and even feared. Did his belief in all of it have something to do with our parting in the very next week? Was it a case of self-fulfilling prophecy?

I lost my job after working there for thirteen years. I'll admit, the trend is a little disconcerting. I think I even mentioned this to someone the day before it all happened, how I'd been working for the same company for thirteen years and could not believe I'd lasted. It hadn't occurred to me that my leaving would not be of my own doing. I recall coming home, in tears, telling M. that I should have known, that I'd been there for thirteen years, and I insinuated that it was the number which spelled the end, to which he smiled lightly and stroked my head. Until I said it, I don't think I even thought about it seriously. It just came out.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't started to wonder about the significance of the number in my life, though. While I don't really get the phobia around it, I have to admit that I can't help but notice it when it has to do with misfortune in my own life. I worry about M. dropping dead in the year of our thirteenth anniversary, or my daughter turning into an almighty horror when she turns thirteen (this is sort of likely, though, as it is with most girls that age). While I don't fear the date, I do fear the passage of time in thirteen year increments now, but that's just because of my own bad luck, which could have been brought on by a cracked mirror or crossed fork and knife on a plate or new shoes on a countertop.

I still choose it when selecting numbers for a draw or the like, though. I figure making friends with it is better than hiding whenever it comes around.