Lucky Day

Traditionally, Friday the 13^th is an unlucky day. 

Back in 1981, it was a particularly ominous year, featuring back-to-back Friday the 13ths in February and March.  I was a recently minted college graduate, trying my best to survive on a meager salary in a microscopic Beacon Hill apartment with my dear friend Jane.  It was my first foray into true “adult” independence, living without a parental or financial safety net.   It was terrifying, and it was the best time of my life.

Only a few months earlier my life was on a different course.  I was planning to attend graduate school in a different city, following my then-boyfriend to the southern campus where he attended medical school.  It took me years to discover that he was not a sharing person, nor did he have a rational mental model for relationships and marriage.  Escaping with my future and dignity intact, I found myself in Boston with an unexpected excess of options. 

Then one day (see 2/19 blog) I met Tom.  Ours was a bizarre courtship, begun during an intense “winter term” in which medical and dental students had little free time.   He invited me to attend an Andrés Segovia concert at Symphony Hall to be held six weeks hence, for which he had to liquidate the majority of his work-study wages.  As a result—lacking both time and funds—we had regular tele-dates on Wednesdays and Sundays.

As the Segovia concert weekend approached, there was a strange convergence of events.   The ex’s college roommate, who was then a graduate student at my alma mater, was to perform in the annual “Lowell House Opera” that same weekend; he had made me promise that I would attend at least one performance.  Perhaps not coincidentally, the ex-boyfriend himself came to town to interview for some type of fellowship.  While still suited up, he appeared unannounced at my office for what he hoped would approximate “shock-and-awe.”  Later that evening, he called me at home, trying to entrap me in a verbal throw-down.  He asked, “In retrospect, don’t you think breaking up with me was a rather high price to pay for your independence?”  I remember his pompous words as if they were uttered yesterday.

It soon became very clear that there was no way to fulfill my commitment to the opera performance without once again encountering the unpleasant ex.  Furthermore, I knew he was not above making a public scene—although I hoped this would not be the case.  Still reeling with mental anguish, I was relieved when Tom called at his predictable Wednesday time.  Although we had yet to have our first date, we had developed quite a friendship over the weeks of tele-dating.  I asked him if he wouldn’t mind escorting me to the Lowell House Opera.  I explained the situation and gave him every chance to refuse; he assured me that he would be delighted.  It would be Friday the 13^th.  We laughed at the irony, determined to make the best of whatever came our way that evening.

The Lowell House Opera was an English rendition of Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore (Elixir of Love).  Tom and I sat in the second row and had a wonderful evening.  My friend, who is now a renowned Physical Chemist, made his singing debut with a small role—proudly belting his one solo line in tune.  At the end of the show, we worked our way up the aisle toward the exit.  I was beginning to think that I was going to escape unscathed, but then suddenly I was face-to-face with the ex.  He was predictably rude, brandishing his date—a particular woman who chased him regularly while we were dating.  As if on cue, Tom emerged from the crowd, dwarfing the ex while slipping an arm around my waist possessively.   Perhaps I was still wrapped up in the romance of the opera, but to me, Tom was like a knight in shining armor.  He whisked me away to safety, leaving the smoldering dragon in our wake.

There is no way to tell this story so that it doesn’t sound silly.  After all, I am now fifty-something and I have been married to Tom for almost thirty years.   Every time Friday the 13^th comes around, we celebrate the night that finally brought us together.  Luck, like life and love, is what you make of it.

Tomorrow's blog:  Pipe Dreams