I was walking to the Go Train station yesterday when a black cat tried to cross in front of me.

I would have none of it, of course, and stepped up my pace to prevent this, ahem, cat-astrophe from happening.  Unfortunately, the demonic feline would have none of it either and stepped up his pace.  I was forced to break into a near run to do an end run around the foul creature.I succeeded.  The black cat did not cross my path.

 Seconds afterward a car pulled up beside me.  The driver rolled down his window and said, “So obviously you’re superstitious.”

“D’uh,” I told him, throwing a pinch of salt over my left shoulder just to be on the safe side.

I’ve tried to be a scientific rationalist all my life, you see, but I’ve failed miserably.  I cannot pick up a penny if it’s tails up.  Well I can, but then I have to throw it over my shoulder for someone else to pick up.  (It’s okay if it’s heads.)  I’m queasy about open umbrellas in the house.  You won’t catch me walking under any ladders, and I’ve been nervous ever since I broke a mirror a couple of weeks ago — seven years is one long stretch of bad luck to have to endure.

None of these superstitions rule me.  I can and do defy them all the time (my wife insists on opening umbrellas inside the house to dry them — we’ll often have three, four umbrellas open at once, and the only bad thing that ever seems to happen is me tripping over them.)  The bottom line is I don’t believe any of the superstitions that I indulge in. 

So why do I indulge in them?  A psychoanalyst could probably answer that question, but I can only guess.  Let’s make it a multiple choice, shall we?

1. Joe really is superstitious and is just in denial

2. Joe was dropped on his head when he was a baby

3. Joe indulges in these superstitions because he finds them amusing

4.  It gives him something to blog about

Whatever the truth is, I sure hope that black cat isn’t out again tomorrow…