What’s Luck Got to Do with It?

by Amy on March 16, 2010 · 0 comments

I’m not Irish, so I don’t have luck by heritage.  But I can’t help but check each clover I happen upon for four leaves.  As my thirty (cough-cough)-something St. Patrick’s Day rolls around, I find that I’m still a dreamer, a romantic, a believer in all things luck, especially luck in the love department.

I guess I haven’t changed much since I was 22 and wrote the essay below for a Tennessean writing contest on the topic of superstition.  As luck would have it, I won the contest and a trip to New York City.  Anyway, the essay is so preciously and naively 22 that I couldn’t help but drag it out of its time-worn scrapbook and share it with you, even if blushing a bit while re-reading it.  (The seasoned writer in me will try not to edit anything):

[From Amy, Age 22]: Sure, I envisioned the seven luckless years I was sentenced to when I dropped my compact of powder this morning and not only scattered the powder but (gasp!!) shattered the mirror.  Sure, I blame a bad hair day on those two big black tomkitties who live across the way and make a point to cross my path at least twice a week.

But my real superstitions in life lie in matters of the heart.  Well, the doubters call me superstitious, but I prefer to think of myself as a hopeless romantic.

Remember in Sleepless in Seattle when Meg Ryan thinks it’s a bad sign when she tries on her mom’s wedding dress and rips it?  Gosh, who didn’t bawl at the end when Meg and sweetie Tom Hanks hold hands for the first time and it’s…sniff…sob…magic?

If I believe in magic I’m superstitious, right?  Well, not only do I believe in magic of the heart, I insist upon it.  I’m so sure I’m going to meet Mr. Right in the cantaloupe section of the supermarket that I despise real dates and make them a begrudging annual event.  But hey, I’m only 22, and I’m still allowed to dream about handsome princes and happily-ever-afters, right?  “Love takes work,” everyone tells me.  No, relationships take work.  Love happens.

Some day, if my mother has her way, I’ll enter the real world and get to know some OK male type and create a relationship with him and walk down the aisle and give birth to Jack and Jill.  But for now I will revel in my superstition and enjoy a fleeting kiss now and then.  You know the kind when you both look into each other’s eyes, like in the middle of a rainstorm in a deserted city park in early April, and just know you’re going to kiss?  Much more magical than the mandatory end-of-date fishlips kiss. 

Insensible to let superstition, not careful planning, rule my love life.  But what is love if not magic?

Leave a Comment

Previous post:

Next post: