Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
In my unconscious and on-going quest to become that one old lady getting all up in your personal space on the metro whilst rocking a neon dashiki and spouting truisms like, "Life for me ain't been no crystal stair," in recent years I've noticed a growing loyalty to childhood superstitions. Case in point, I've refused to throw away this wishbone from last Tuesday's roast chicken until I can conjure up a kick ass wish.
I'm pretty comfortable with most of my weirder life ticks. To me it isn't strange that I still hold my breath when racing up the stairs as a sacrifice to the tiny gods in my head in order to ensure that there won't be an ax murderer waiting for me in my apartment.
All bathroom doors must be closed or I won't be able to sleep. According to my great grandmother, Nonnie, eating dessert on plastic plates in your own home brings bad luck so I never do. And if I see a penny I pick that shit up. Period. Despite the fact that doing so on the semen-covered cement might have sealed my fate in the wrong direction. This is all normal to me.
So the ritual of the wishbone, or furcula, which some ancient Italians brilliantly figured out has magical genie powers, isn't anything out of the ordinary even though it reads pretty cavewoman. Basically you and a friend eat a dead bird down to its very skeleton then, upon discovering the y-shaped clavicle in tact, you each grab a side, make a wish, pull and whoever ends up with more bone (the lucky break) gets their wish granted by Willy Wonka. It's amazing.
The trick is to not waste your wish on something lofty like "peace in the middle east" because, come on, even the invisible Borrowers who run the universe have their limits. So, I usually go for something doable like, "I wish for good news from my agent next week" or "I wish Frances would figure out how to not post things on Facebook."
But so far I've got nothing by way of a practical wish packaged small enough to blur the line between long shot and coincidence that continues to feed my manageable obsession with silly things.
As far as Google goes, the wishbone doesn't have a sell-by date but the longer that thing sits in the butter tray in my fridge, the longer I feel just a teeny bit like a nut job. I'm still not throwing it away though.