Thirteen has always been viewed with disdain and fear. There are lots of reasons why. Some say it all began with Judas. The disciple who betrayed Jesus was the 13th person to arrive at the Last Supper. Before that, it was the tricky little god Loki who showed up 13th at an exclusive dinner party of gods, forgetting to bring a hostess gift and creating all kinds of mayhem.
Today, whole buildings are constructed without 13th floors. Think of that! Can you imagine the physics and engineering behind creating a building that can defy gravity by leaving out an entire floor?!? It’s incredible!
Whenever Friday the 13th comes around, it sends us into a panic, and we have never looked at a hockey mask the same way again.
Shoot, today is Jan. 13th and I feel rattled and insecure already.
Thirteen spooks us. It shakes us. It sends a shiver running down our spines.
And this December I think I finally learned why … because my daughter turned (gulp!) 13.
AHHHHHH!!!
I know, right? Thir-teen. Not so much the “Thir.” I can deal with the “Thir.” Sounds like a doorman with a bad lisp.
But it’s the second part – “teen!”
TEEN!!!
You can’t say it without dragging out the “n.” Without whispering it like you’re a snake. Without shaking uncontrollably, crossing yourself and wondering how in the world you will ever survive. Is there a hotline you can call? Special therapy sessions? A “Teens for Dummies” book?
Let me pause for a moment and make a comment … because my daughter reads this column … and knows how to put the car into neutral and roll it into the street: That girl is terrific. I don’t worry about her BECOMING a teen. That she will suddenly start acting like some raving lunatic, change her personality overnight and … start rolling the car into the street. I’m pretty lucky. And I hope it stays that way.
But it’s not some change that frightens me … it’s that darn number. Saying it. Thinking it. Trying to come to terms with all that it might mean.
Is there another number in childhood that has this same effect? One that carries so much baggage? That signals some major transition has become – moving from this state of blissful adolescence into a holding area of mayhem that can only end with a prominent tattoo, a boyfriend named “Taco” and something even worse: adulthood!
Think of it: We are only 5 years from college! We are closer to sharing a drink together than we are to that long-forgotten baby stroller. We are in uncharted territory, and moving to a time when all of this will be a thing of the past. And that’s a lot to come to terms with.
Thanks, stupid number!
I don’t know how I’ll handle it. How I’ll deal with everything that comes with saying her age now, or this new classification – “teenager.”
Maybe I’ll just deny it and start saying her age is “thir.” Let people think I’m a doorman with a lisp. And save them from thinking we’re cursed and should run screaming from the vicinity like a mass murderer with a hockey mask is chasing them.