Here's how f'd up I am
So f'd up I can't even mention him by name . . . I mean, where did all this superstition come from? I know where I get my paranoia, but the superstition? It's being a surgeon that does it. You begin believing in lucky charms. If you have a pediatric airway emergency on your hands, you begin praying -- hell, you enter into full balls-to-the-walls bargain mode with God -- no matter how agnostic you might be. You avoid black cats. You step over sidewalk cracks. You worry when the umbrella opens by accident indoors. And you always, always knock on wood when you say something good. Here's the deal. A certain someone has been spending way too much time talking about his wonderful marriage. I like this guy, like him enough that what he's doing is scaring the hell out of me. He's calling down the bad juju. Let me repeat: this is MY problem. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, I'm still rattled. Fact: every time I tell someone how great my marriage is, Karen and I end up in knock-down take-no-prisoners warfare for at least a week. This generally follows within twenty-four hours of my verbal excess. True, we've always bounced back*, but you have to understand: we both learned to fight dirty as kids (Karen even moreso than me) so it's never pretty. Fact: we only fight about once a year, which is about how long it takes me to forget that I should keep my mouth zipped. So, if that certain someone happens to wander this way and read this, please, please, for the love of God, knock on wood. Your thoroughly f'd up friend, D. P.S.: NO GUESSES in the comments thread. I'm being purposefully vague to keep the bad juju confused. *Knocking on wood, knocking on wood, knocking on wood.