Just My Luck

I have long joked that if I were escorted into a room of 100 empty chairs — and only one of said chairs was susceptible to collapse — I would invariably choose that one.

Because that's just my sort of luck.

If you think I'm exaggerating, here's a "humorous" example of a just what exactly it means to be me:

A couple years ago I went to see a local acting troupe perform. The cost of admission is $5 plus the roll of a die.

In other words: anywhere from $6 to $11.

All around me people are paying $6, $7 and $8 to get in. In fact no one has paid $11 when it's my turn to roll.

"Twelve dollars!" declares the ticket-taker.

"Twelve?!" I said. "But that's not even possible!"

"Oh, yeah, you're right," he said, moving in for a closer look at the die. "Eleven dollars!"

I paid up, thrusting a fistful of dollars onto the table, my lips curled in a commingling of amusement and disgust.

Suffice it to say that though my bad luck often results in humorous stories and unique anecdotes, it is not always so benign. In fact: sometimes it instead results in trips to the hospital, rare allergies to life-saving drugs, and the occasional loss of limb.

[Just kidding about that last part.]

All a long way of saying I felt I had reason to be concerned when I saw this story regarding space debris.

When I am gone, remember me fondly — and, please, don't forget to feed Maude.