Lucky Friday the 13th

Despite my obsessive-compulsive neat-freakishness, my illogical belief that the way I position myself in a room effects the outcome of the Red Sox game, and the influence of my Grandmother who put garlic over the doors to keep out the vampires (I'm serious) and who grounded me once for opening an umbrella in the house, I don't consider myself an overly superstitious person. As a result, I gave absolutely no thought to the fact that Friday was Friday the 13th, even though this morning, the woman who MC'd our current stop on the dance tour show made a big deal about it. Honestly, my attitude is that historically, the number 13 is supposed to contain luck - neither good nor bad. Many cultures believe its supposed to be a good luck day. Therefore, the 13th merely implies the abundance of luck, it does not dictate what kind of luck you are going to have. Yet this rationality did not prevent me from having an AWFUL DAY.

Bad Luck #1
It didn't start bad. Despite the warnings of the MC, our dance show went perfectly. The only mishap was that we were so bogged down answering questions after it, that we didn't get done until almost 3, when I had hoped to leave by 2 to drive home for the weekend. I was hoping to leave before 3 and avoid rush hour traffic in Boston. But no, I had to leave AT 3. That means I hit Boston at EXACTLY 5pm. On a Friday.

Bad Luck #2: The Disaster
But that isn't such a big deal. It's annoying, but what can you do? So I headed out and reached Boston at 4:59pm. By the time I got on the Zakim Bridge, it was bumper to bumper. I had hoped to at least get to the tunnel before the snarl showed up, but no such luck. However, I leaned back, turned up the radio, and prepared to endure. Then, as soon as I entered the tunnel, the REAL problem emerged. The temperature gauge on my dashboard suddenly lit up and started blinking. I looked at the needle: my engine temperature was at critical and rising to almost 250 degrees. I was a hair's breath away from having my car overheat. In the mouth of the tunnel. In gridlock traffic with no where to go. Shit.

Bad Luck #3
I pulled out my cell phone, ready to call the cops and AAA if my car broke down in the middle of the tunnel, and someone to come pick me up before I got shot at some godawful gas station in Roxbury. It was then, however, that I noticed my phone was absolutely dead. I had charged it all morning, but somehow it had not been plugged in all the way, so that hadn't done shit. Now I started to panic as my dashboard screamed at me, and I kept one eye on the hood waiting to see the first plume of steam. I turned everything off, downed all the windows and turned the heat on to pull all hot air away from the engine. The needle dropped to the edge of the red, but was still critical. I breathed just a little.

I figured at this point it could only be two things:

1) the water pump had died, in which case I was screwed and would either blow in the middle of the traffic jam or I would have to limp off the first exit and figure out what to do, or

2) the temperature gauge was broken, in which case I would be fine as long as the car was moving and coolant was being forced in, but as long as the car was stopped the temp would rise. When the car in front of me moved a few feet and my needle dropped just below the red, I figured out it was #2.

Speed, The Real Movie
Perhaps it's appropriate that the first R-rated movie I ever saw was that action craptacular classic, Speed - that dumb plot where the bus can't go below 55 mph or it will explode. Well, now I was living that thought-provoking screenplay, and by hour number three, my real-life drama had lasted twice as long as the movie and I was on my last nerve. It was like playing "Beat the Clock." As soon as my needle went into the red, the traffic in front of me had so many seconds to move before my coolant blew. I was on edge the entire time, trying to decide whether I should cross my fingers and see how far I could get or get out as soon as possible.

I opted for the former, and endured a finger-biting trip which almost ended in Quincy at the 93/route 3 split, where the entire universe was blocking route 3 and I was dead in the water for minutes at a time before I could inch along. I was getting punchy too, and almost rear-ended a few cars because every time we moved a few feet I'd gun it to get my core temp down as much as possible before stopping again.

It's a good thing my brakes have 4,000 more miles on them.

Some Kind of Luck - But Which Kind?
Finally, by 7:30 pm, traffic cleared around exit 13 on route 3 and I was able to drive easily the rest of the way back, with only one slightly nervewracking moment when I had to stop at a red light. Then I got home and had a stiff drink. But in the end, I can't decide if my day, shitty as it was, was lucky or unlucky. I mean, it was bad luck that I hit traffic, my car broke, and my phone died, but wasn't I incredibly lucky to have made it home at all?