In honor of this Friday, I thought I’d share with you a story about my life and how it has been affected by Friday the 13th:

I wouldn’t consider myself a superstitious person. Don’t get me wrong, when presented with the choice between walking under a ladder or around it, I’ll take the longer path. But I don’t base my life around broken mirrors, black cats, and throwing salt over my shoulder.

Unfortunately, my date of birth is the 13th of April. Why is that so unfortunate, you might ask? Well, every seven or eight years, my birthday falls on Friday the 13th. And on these years, bad things always seem to happen. Very bad things. Without fail.

You think I’m exaggerating. Well I have broken exactly five bones in my life. (quite impressive, I know.) Every single one of these bones was broken on the year of Friday the 13th.

I now present to you exhibit A: the year of my first birthday, April 13th, 1990. The birthday itself went great. But it was all downhill after that. I was a very curious baby. I mean, bright colors, stuffed animals! There was just so much world out there! So this one day in summer, I’m crying at five in the morning, and my sister, who at six years old is now a “big girl” decides to take care of me so mommy and daddy can sleep. So she gets me out of my crib and takes me over to her big bed. Well I’m happy as a clam. That is, until I see it. My brother’s coveted stuffed rhino lying at the edge of the bed… Ohh! Need it. Want it. Fall off the bed trying to get it. And that’s how I break my collarbone. My sister later told my parents (on the verge of tears) “Mommy, Daddy. I broke the baby.” But it wasn’t her fault. It was that damn Friday the 13th coming to get me!

It was also in 1990 that I broke two bones in my leg falling off a chair. No one saw me and so I spent the better part of three days crying and crawling around dragging my leg before my mother thought to take me to a doctor. Good one, Friday. Good one.

But the year eventually ended and I was safe… That is, until the next time, Friday April 13th, 2001. Again the birthday goes off without a hitch. But come fall, my luck catches up with me. It’s October and at this point I’m a soccer star. Fearless. Cause let’s face it, why not go for the ball if you can? So what if there’s another girl in the way and I ain’t that big? On this particular day, though, I wasn’t doing so well.

“Agggh! It hurts! Here. Right here.” I don’t usually complain, but these cramps in my leg are killing me.
“You’re in, Blythe,” shouts my coach.
“But my leg—“ I whimper.
“Look, we’re down and it’s the fourth. We need you in the game.”

So I take my spot at midfield and this girl dribbles the ball right towards me. I can get it from her, I know I can. She’s not even that good. So I make a play for the ball. And the girl frickin’ trips me! More than that, she actually kicks my arm as I’m falling to the grass! I hear a snap and crumple on the ground.

“I broke my arm!” Those are the first words I say. As I get rushed off the field, my disfigured arm gets splinted, and I fight the urge to pass out, I notice out of the corner of my eye the ref gave a drop ball for the play! This bitch snaps my arm like a twig and there’s no penalty on the play???

But who knows, maybe the ref knew it wasn’t really her fault. It was the curse of Friday the 13th.

My arm has never quite healed right, but you know, it’s usable. And my high school years a spotted with minor surgeries, but other than that, I get to college without incident. Then, my 18th birthday. Friday, April 13th, 2007.

At this point I’m somewhat less hardcore that my twelve year old self. I’ve quit soccer for frisbee and I now have the girly reaction of “Duck!” when facing a collision. Wonder why. It doesn’t matter anyway. All my precautions do me no good against Friday the 13th.

So I’m playing on an intramural disc league and I get passed the frisbee in the endzone. No one is near me. I’m golden. But as I grab at the disc, it bobbles. I can’t drop it, I’m wide open! So I violently snatch it again and it doing so, jam my finger. As fate would have it, I stepped out of bounds anyway. But hot damn that mother hurt. I played it off like it ain’t no thang. “I’ll be back next week but I can’t bend it so I should probably sit this one out.” Two days later, when I still couldn’t move it, I finally went to the doctor. Yep. It was broken.

That one never quite healed properly either. So I now have what is dubbed “mallet finger.” Awesome. Friday the 13th you’ve done it again!

But maybe my tales of woe haven’t convinced you. “It’s just a coincidence” right? Well, coincidence or curse, whatever. All I know is I am not looking forward to 2012…