Updated: Aug 3, 2021
I’ve never been lucky. Not when it counts.
Growing up, my brother could sign up for just about anything and win, from the small to the grand. A pencil one time. A pedal car that looked like an indie race car another. No matter how many things I entered, my name was never drawn.
Turns out my luck doesn’t require putting my name in a hat.
They say the odds of winning the lottery are the same as being pooped on by a bird, which somehow translates to being a good omen … if you are “lucky enough” for the poop to choose you.
Well, here’s one area where I am SUPER lucky!
When I was a junior in high school, I drove a light blue Toyota Corolla station wagon, which I affectionately called The Turbo Beast. My dad taught me the importance of taking care of my car, so on a hot summer day in Oklahoma, I was dutifully cleaning the inside of the car.
The car was parked in my parent’s driveway. It was afternoon, and the sun was beating straight down. I was wearing shorts and was sitting in the passenger’s seat, cleaning the dashboard on that side. The passenger’s side door was open.
While I scrubbed, there came a splat. A bird flying overhead had released its bowels at just the right time and angle that, caught by the light breeze, it landed smack dab on my right thigh … inside the car!! How lucky is that?!
Not even five years later, I was in my second year of college, still in Oklahoma. For my basic biology class, I was required to go to the zoo. My class partner, Jared, and I decided to go together.
It was the middle of the day, and we were in an enclosed area where they kept the sloths. As you know, sloths move very slowly, so we were standing still for several minutes, trying to catch the slightest movement in one of the sloths.
Suddenly, without warning, I felt a quick tap on my shoulder. Had a sloth thrown something? Or was it some kid at the zoo? Nope, apparently there were birds in the enclosure as well. One of them had looked at Jared and me, zeroed in on me, and thought, “Now that girl looks lucky!” Aim. Fire.
About ten years later, I was living in NYC. Astoria, Queens to be exact. In Astoria, the subway trains are elevated above ground. My husband, Judah, and I had walked to Rosario’s, this amazing Italian grocery store that makes the most delicious fresh mozzarella cheese. Even after we moved from Astoria, we would make trips back for Rosario’s mozzarella. When it’s freshly made, it’s still warm and the most delicious cheese I’ve ever tasted. But I digress.
On our way home from Rosario’s, we walked under the train. I felt something hit me in the forehead, at my hairline. “Ow!” Did I get hit by a rock, shaken loose from the train above? It hurt when it hit and felt like I was bleeding.
I turned so Judah could get a closer look, and he started laughing. Lucky me! A bird had pooped, as I walked under a massive, suspended train track, and shot me in the forehead.
Unfortunately, the bag holding the mozzarella was plastic. Non-absorbent. It would only smear the splat across my face.
I was in shock to the point of laughter mixed with disbelief and frustration. I made Judah promise not to acknowledge it further until we got home and I could clean it up. For the next ten minutes, we walked and talked as though nothing had happened. Only the wind against my wet forehead fractured my fantasy.
If my calculations are correct, and my lucky streak remains, I can expect another lucky strike to land around 2030. Can’t wait!