So Lance Armstrong is retiring . I saw that my Tivo had scheduled to tape his press conference yesterday (Lance Armstrong being one of our keywords, naturally, so it tapes anything his name pops up on ), and wondered what he was announcing. Maybe that he wasn’t going to do the Tour at all, or some response to the latest drug accusations. But no. He’s going to try to win one last Tour, and then he’s done. I really hope he can do it. I have long confessed to my married girl crush on him (and Adam Brody/Seth Cohen) but beyond that he’s just incredibly inspirational. And seven is my lucky number. Maybe it’s his, as well? Hope so.

The lucky number thing is weird, isn’t it? Mine has always been seven, since I read a book in first grade called Seven Is Magic. (I don’t remember a thing about it, other than the title.) Seven is a very popular lucky number: I assumed it was everyone’s, until my husband told me his was four. Four? What’s lucky about four? Seems odd to me. But it is what it is, I guess. There’s no accounting for personal preference. Still, it’s not like with favorite colors, or favorite foods, which you can back up with reasons, i.e.” I look good in pink,” or” birthday cake is the best!” It’s much more intangible, because luck is as well.

Of course some people don’t have lucky numbers at all, could care less about such things. These are the same people, in my mind, who are not superstitious, people like my cousin who, on the day she was about to have major surgery, opened her umbrella inside. I recoiled, horrified, but she just rolled her eyes. “I’m not superstitious,” she said, shaking her head, like it was the silliest thing in the world. And maybe it is. But why risk it, is how I feel. I can avoid walking under ladders, or opening umbrellas inside, or breaking mirrors (or try to avoid it, at any rate). So why not, just to be on the safe side? Maybe this is indicative of how entirely too cautious I am about everything. Probably.

The thing I can get ENTIRELY too superstitious about, though, is writing. For example, I decided while writing This Lullaby that I HAD to have chocolate before I sat down to write each day, or it just wouldn’t go well. So now I have chocolate, every day. (I swear I lose a pound or two whenever I finish a book.) I’m weird about the time of day I write, and for how long, and if I’ve had a certain object on my desk for a long time—a picture, or bottlecap, or whatever—while I’m working on a book, I can’t move it until I’m finished. Yes, it’s strange. But writing is so completely out of my control (or so it feels most days) I guess I feel like I need whatever little tricks I have to be able to do it at all. And don’t even THINK about opening an umbrella near my computer when I’m working on a book. I’d probably have an aneurysm. No joke.

have a good day, everyone!