On Easter Sunday, one of the mirrors in our bathroom fell off the wall, hit the counter and shattered into about a million pieces.
"Well, you know what this means," I said. "Seven years of bad luck."
"No. You didn't break it, it just broke on its own," our friend Anthony said.
But, somehow I doubted that Luck cares about that small detail.
Not that I'm superstitious, mind you.
Fast-forward to Sunday morning, when I carried out my plan to take a home pregnancy test before Greg left for his three-week class. I dreamed that I was waving a test stick in his face and saying -- "two pink lines. I have never had two pink lines!" and, in my dream, my husband gave me a blank look and asked, "do I have a zit on my back?" and turned around so I could inspect. I went bonkers. I was hitting him on his back and saying "you are such an IDIOT! Do you know what two pink lines mean? It means I'm pregnant!"
I'm ashamed to say I took this as some sort of premonition. But that was just a dream. In reality, only one pink line appeared and my husband didn't act like an idiot and say something stupid. He just wrapped me in his arms and kissed the top of my head.
I bought a box of three tests, but was too disheartened to try again this morning, though maybe I'll work up the courage to give it a go tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the black space on the wall where the mirror once lived seemed to mock me. Seven more years of this shit? I don't think I can take it.