Happy Friday the Thirteenth

Once every 212.35 days, we have a Friday the Thirteenth.

This means I have lived through and survived approximately 75 or so Friday the Thirteenths.

The most important one, however, was the first one. I was born on April 13, 1962. Problem is I was supposed to be born sometime in June. As a result of arriving on stage before my cue, I weighed a whopping three pounds, six ounces. This was well over 40 years ago, when anything under five was considered a fairly hopeless cause.

The odds the doctor gave my parents were as follows:

1) He has about a 25% chance of living 24 hours.

2) If he lives 24 hours, he has about a 50% chance of living a week.

3) If he lives a week, he’ll probably keep living.

4) He’ll have lung problems his whole life and might be blind.

I beat the odds. Never had a lung problem, and had 20/10 vision until my middle-aged eyes started their obstinate, quiet march toward reader glasses. I now weigh over 200 pounds (probably could stand to lose ten).

I’ve had my share of challenges in the past 47 years, 7 months. Apparently none of them have registered as anything but pale in comparison to the first one…just surviving a week. If I can survive that one, chances are I can survive this one too.

As Hans Solo said to C-3PO in the first Star Wars, “Never tell me the odds.”

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover