Appointment in Samarra

I just typed "I'm a little bit superstitious," but then deleted it.

Surely, to be superstitious is observably express such behavior, right?

So what I should say is: I constantly struggle against a bizarre superstitious impulse that jumps up eternal and refreshed no matter how many times I smack it down, like some sort of demonic Whac-A-Mole, but against which I guard so zealously that a casual observer would never notice.

Knock on wood.

No, seriously. The little stuff that not even K would notice, I quietly indulge in: read a bit of Theroux on a plane, or the plane will crash. Finish getting dressed before the toast pops up, and my briefing will go ok. Minor wagers like that.

There're some doozies in the irrational arsenal, too. Take, for instance, the unswerving belief that the universe contains a Conservation of Karma law. When, as very rarely happens, something really, really unquestionably good occurs in my life, I become absolutely frantic with anxiety despite my best rational admonitions. Limbically speaking, I know the pendulum will swing back, and anticipate that payback will be a bitch.

It's a dynamic, daily battle.

Dreams, I have no truck with. I used to walk undergraduates through the little matrices: uh-huh, ok, you dreamed about Uncle Milt and he called. Ok, place a tick in this box. Now how many times did you dream about Miltie and he didn't call? Didn't dream, and he did? 'Kay, now run your chi-square...

And yes, ok -- I had the worst nightmare of my life the night before the Mumbai bombing; a dream so visceral and evil that even the rational part of my brain has its doubts. (Rat. eds.: Not really.) But that was a one-off, and we'll set it aside.

So when I woke up this morning from some sort of active-but-not-horrible dream that I can't really remember, and sat bolt upright with the single, compelling thought: Don't bike into work this morning!, I, y'know, made fun of myself. Deliberately put on hole-y underwear as a taunt to impending accidents.

And then rode in very, very carefully.

Somewhere around the steepest downhill part of the commute, where, geez, you gotta let the brake out a little, no matter how superstitious prudent you're being, I very nearly collided (but didn't, because my speed was more controlled than usual) with someone walking a dog on a too-long lead when she turned the corner without looking. Ok, I rationally-emotively compromised, situation encountered, and, due to either wild luck, or, y'know, whatever; averted. Can we resume our regularly-scheduled post-positivist mental programs now?

And then, at 1:30, sitting in my windowless plywood-and-cardboard (I suspect) office, I felt the walls shake. Like a big truck had hurtled by, except the street outside my office is closed to traffic. I looked around for my chemical hood -- note to self, we were talking about changing careers soon, yes? -- and strained to listen for announcements. Meanwhile, I was desperately trying to remember: ok, was it "don't bike to work today," or could it have been "don't bike to work today"?

But, ok; fine: an email came through a few minutes later alerting us that, if we'd felt anything (if we'd felt anything?), there'd been a small earthquake. (Rat. eds.: Are you sh*ttin' us?)

I finished my uneventful day, checked tire pressure and all screws and fasteners, and rode very, very carefully through traffic back to the bike path. All was fine, until, coming back up the steep hill, I suddenly couldn't breathe.

I've had mild exercise-induced asthma before -- well, post-Mumbai, anyway -- but this was, I gradually realized, an exertion-induced dry throat meeting one of the worst pollen days of the season in a very allergic individual. It was awful. I made it back, but gasping and retching, with tears streaming down my face. I collapsed on my back on my bedroom floor and tried to mentally focus on opening my lungs...and my gaze drifted up and took in that I'd left the bedroom window open last night. Which meant that I almost certainly would've been suffering allergy symptoms when I woke up this morning; worse than usual ones. Which I might have noticed at the conscious level, were I not so flustered by the need to counter the Delphic quality of my dream.

I understand that I'm probably stuck with the rational and superstitious duking it out for the long haul, and I'm ok with that. I'm just wondering whether I can get them to wear different-colored jerseys, or something.