Earlier in life I complained bitterly of having bad luck. When the outcome of anything I cared about came down to chance, I always seemed to tip to the losing side. As I got older, I complained less but instead adopted a more fatalistic, resigned attitude.
My belief that the gods of chance hated me has stuck with me and perhaps even increased through my triathlon-related injuries and pains.
The girlfriend has long told me that my bad luck mantra was misguided. Personally, I've always thought that this was just something that any person with extraordinary luck feels obligated to say to someone with continually bad luck.
My life philosophy, however, was turned on its head this weekend when the girlfriend was struck with a comical string of bad luck. It actually doesn't sound that dramatic in the telling, but when you watch someone who's always been the golden child of the universe knock her full glass of wine over, shattering it into a million pieces, one evening and having the handle on her mug of coffee come clear off in her hand, sending her coffee all over her clothes and chair, the next morning, you start to question your black and white assumptions about good and bad.
The girlfriend's recent string of bad luck doesn't mean mine has turned particularly good, but I have uncharacteristicly high hopes.
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