For reasons I still cannot fully explain, I have always loved Friday the Thirteenth. It had nothing to do with the movies (my degree of sensitivity includes feeling witnessed violence, so I don’t go for slash’em’up gorefests if I can help it), and it’s not like my birthday is on the 13th. It might have been with the unique feel of the date; after all, it normally only falls once a year. I’d celebrate by holding sleepovers, natch. We didn’t do anything spooky, or watch any horror fliks – we’d sit and gabber, make prank calls – the usual range of pre-teen/childhood activity.
Maybe, in my own little way, it was my defiance of popular culture. The date is considered unlucky by many, and while I smile at superstitions, I don’t let them rule my life. But I wouldn’t be surprised, if I could go back into my younger mind, if I didn’t give them a bit more precedence then. Maybe we did Bloody Mary in the bathroom, but the weight of the years has crushed the relevant memories out of shape, perhaps putting them in association with something unrelated. Or maybe the sleepovers were my way of admitting to fear; perhaps I was trying to gather more people around me for the sake of safety in numbers. I doubt that last one; there was always gleeful joy in organizing for my friends to come over to visit me, especially after we moved fairly far away from most of them (some 20+ miles to the other side of town).
Whatever the case, it was a tradition I held onto for many years, and sort of hope my sproglette will consider it for herself when she’s older. I won’t hold it against her if she doesn’t though – we all make our own traditions and ceremonies and their trappings, and they likely have the specialist meaning to us and us alone. What about the rest of you – any particular day/date/thing that was ‘your’ thing? 🙂