There but for a knock on wood go I

“If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” — Woody Allen.

That quote is one I’ve in large part lived my life by. 

Even before I’d heard Woody’s wisdom, I had somehow sussed out the capricious nature of the universe: that despite the best laid schemes of mice and men, things frequently “gang aft agley.” (Which is Scottish for “take a high dive into a shallow puddle,” more or less.)

In fact, over the years I’ve come to think the universe (the fates, God, Allah, Krishna … I believe exactly what you believe, so relax) is not only capricious, but actually out to get me.

Fortunately, I also believe there are preventative steps which may be taken to counteract this phenomenon. These include not walking under a ladder, lighting only two cigarettes from a match but never three, picking up a penny for good luck (head’s up only!), and most importantly, knocking on wood whenever you say or write something that might potentially “jinx” you.

I employ the knocking on wood technique at least a dozen times a day. Is it ridiculous and superstitious? Oh, you bet. Does it have one iota of scientific corroboration? Nope. Do I feel like a schmuck for believing — even tenuously — in such nonsense? Absolutely.

But why take a chance?

I knock on wood for the same reason a more rational person establishes a 401K account early in his career and then later resists the urge to cash it out to buy a red sports car during an early onset midlife crisis (but that’s a story for another time).

The point is, superstitious hooey or not, so far, knocking on wood has worked.

But every once in a while, I’ll have a terrible thought and forget to knock. That happened last week, when my column dealt with the hostility I was beginning to feel toward the Hoveround people who keep sending me offers to purchase their little electric geezer-mobile.

In that column I wrote, “I may be old and tubby, but when I’m ready for a Hoveround, jerk-faces, I’ll call YOU!”

I wrote that and failed to knock on wood! A week later, to the day, I was riding around Meijer on one of their industrial strength scooters, purchasing crutches, ice packs and the bucketful of drugs it was going to take to get me on my feet again.

Knee problems. Hopefully temporary. The drugs — steroids among them, so I’m sure to look like Schwarzenegger by the time this is all over — seem to be working. Of course, that could just be the painkillers talking; I’m on enough of ‘em to make Keith Richards jealous.

But I really do seem to be improving. Meanwhile, that celestial laughter I’m hearing is all the reminder I’ll need to, next time, knock on wood.

That’s my plan, anyway.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273