I was recently riding up in an elevator with a group of likably rowdy teenagers (the kind of teens that make you remember the incomparably exhilarating aspects of the puberty years instead of the really creepy ones). One of them suddenly noticed that the clock had just struck 11:11. “It’s 11:11 – everyone make a wish,” she instructed. When asked to explain herself, she reported that 11:11 is a lucky time of the day, prime for wishing, hoping, and dreaming.
I later took this information straight to Google, and her story checked out. 11:11 is supposed to be pretty golden.
I’m all shook up because I was born at 11:11 a.m. This has to mean something earth-shattering. I should get to be a witch or have other dormant special powers. And you’d think I’d at least have the lock on luck, birthright-wise.
So when is this luck going to kick in? Other than a Starbucks gift card that I won in a raffle last year, nothing even close to pure, traditional luck has ever graced me with its presence. I’ve only bled, sweat, and teared for everything I wanted. But ever since I learned that I actually belong to this VIP caste, I’ve been paying much more attention to digital clocks and wishing it up, come 11:11. I wish big, I wish small – and nothing’s happening. It’s still like it’s always been. A few 11:11s ago, I wished that I would stop spilling things on my light-colored clothes. Two nights later, I spilled more red wine on another white shirt. Which could be my cue to start upgrading to gin.
I guess I’ll still keep at it for the time being. This kind of regular, organized wishing can’t hurt. But it always feels like it’s 11:12 and I’ve just missed the boat.
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