There has been an idea knocking around my head as of late, this idea of spray painting my metal simian lawn ornament that I purchased at a flea market back in 2000.
Step Seven: humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
He wears blue jeans with a vest. No shirt, and with his right hand raised in forward motion, it’s as though he works at Ace Hardware, and has noticed that confused look on your face. He has a saddle on his back, for the children. I painted him solid blue, in accordance with my two favorite sports teams.
Mr. Monkey is 0-28 in the good luck charm championship department over these last fourteen years. And it’s not as though I didn’t invest my effort and time building up the superstition. I’d point him in the direction of whichever city my team was visiting. On off-days, or just to change the team’s fortunes, I’d sometimes place him in spots around the yard I thought would make him happy, resulting in positive vibrations that would influence a professional sporting event. I have, on occasion, had to remind him who’s boss. Though he weighs a solid 25 pounds, he’s easily made airborne, particularly following crushing defeats. I’ve left him upside down in a snowbank once for over a week, just to teach him a lesson.
Now, after all this time, I’m wondering if the problem isn’t the color.
So I must ask myself a question that just got much, much bigger on me: Are superstitions grandiose forms of ego? Is attaching inconsequential thoughts and actions to real-life outcomes halfway across the country doing my right-sizedness any good? It can be more than a little confining, adhering to my made-up rules.
Lesson for today: Root, root, root with all my heart, but understand that creating coincidences and then proclaiming them super all thanks to my actions is literally bragging myself up about nothing.