Hockey related:
Right shoelace untied
pork for dinner
underwear color matches jersey color on game day
always park in my lucky spot.
car flags only go up when I’m on the way to the arena
playoffs: I only wash my lucky socks when the team loses
M&M’s must be eaten in pairs. Blue with red, yellow with green, orange with brown. Leftovers then have no certain order to be eaten in, but the combinations are important. Red can go with green or orange, yellow with brown or orange, but in no circumstances can yellow be eaten with blue or red. Blue may be eaten with green.
No, I don’t know why, I just know the fate of the world rests on how I eat my M&M’s.
I never utter (or write) the words, “I’m b*red.” (As in rhymes with “board”.) I find that when I have uttered those words in the past, the universe conspires to address that condition, often in the most unusual (and unwelcome) ways.
Also, if I am in a restaurant, and the desert menu has any item that contains chocolate & raspberry in any form then I am required by my personal religion to order it and eat it. This is especially annoying if there are more than one items with this combination. It can be a burden.
Many years ago a friend of mine told me about a book on numerology. She immediately became a devotee. I read though it. I don’t really believe in it. Sort of like horoscopes. No harm, but I don’t really believe an astrologer can predict my day.
However, five has been “my number” for more than 30 years. For example, I’ll set a digital alarm clock to 6:08, instead of 6:00. You see six and eight add up to 14. One plus four equal five. It’s supposed to be lucky.
When I arrive to work I always set my car radio to a particular station low on the dial before turning the ignition off. If I don’t then it will be insanely busy or not. The higher the frequency of the station I leave the radio tuned to, the worse it will be.
When we change shifts we never use the “Quiet” word. That would just be asking for it.
Not really a superstition, in that I don’t believe I’m actually a jinx, but it’s a running joke that I’m not allowed to watch my alma mater’s football games. This is the result of a pattern noted while I was attending there: if I even glanced at a screen displaying the game, our team lost. (Of course, they usually lost even when I didn’t catch a single glimpse of the game, too, but we never let such petty carping get in the way of a gag.) It quickly became customary to exile me to the next room (from which I offered snarky commentary) or to ceremoniously turn my chair away from the screen, depending on the venue.
If I had the slightest interest in watching the games, I would have put a stop to it by now. As it is, I use it to justify reading or playing video games instead. 