Luck of the Irish or Murphy's Law?

Happy Friday!

So, in case you were unaware, we are currently in the midst of the few weeks bestowed upon Boston every Spring and Fall of perfect walking weather. Not too cold, encouraging clenching of one’s every muscle to maintain heat and not too warm, encouraging sweat to drench your clothes on the way to or from an event where you would rather not be damp with perspiration. I like to take advantage of this and walk to and/or from work if I have the time.

This morning was particularly beautiful, sunny after days of dense, dark clouds. I chose to walk the long way, through the pretty, blooming side streets of the South End, then slipped through the tall buildings of the Back Bay, reaching the swan boats and the Public Garden and then carefully walking along the crooked brick sidewalks of Charles Street. I crossed the Longfellow into Kendall Square, then walked along the tree lined Binney Street on the final approach to my office.

As I’m happily walking along, listening to Pandora (since I haven’t yet reached the monthly limit), something hits me on the shoulder. I immediately know what this is, but I look down to check anyway. Yes, confirmed: the fifth bird poop of my life.

This is astounding to me, in terms of odds, since some people go their entire lives without being pooped on by a bird. A slew of unkind words cross my mind as I inspect the damage as best I can while continuing my progress toward work. I still have a few minutes before I reach anywhere that I can do anything to fix this, so I begin to ponder: Is this good luck, as everyone says, or not?

This is undoubtedly better than the first time, when a bird pooped in my hair. It is not quite as easy to fix as when a seagull pooped on my leg at the beach, and I could simply pop in the ocean for a quick swim. Definitely not as bad as the third time, when I was pooped on as a thirteen year-old, surrounded by friends at a birthday party, then suddenly outcast by these friends for having poop on me (as if it were a social faux pas I had committed or something I intended to happen!). It's probably comparable to the last time I was pooped on, where my sunglasses saved my hair from yet another attack by my feathered enemies. It has come to the point of silent prayer when walking under a flock of flying birds of any kind.

In this case, I have mostly protected my work clothing with a light jacket that doesn’t require any special cleaning. Mostly meaning this one apparently really had to go and there was splatter on the bottom part of the leg of my jeans… which I figure very few people will notice after cleaning. Bonus! I don’t have to go through the day with (too much) clear evidence of this event, nor do I have to perform crazy acts of cleaning or pay Andy, the friendly dry cleaner downstairs, as a result of this bird so kindly relieving itself on me. I also know I will most likely have a chance to clean the jacket before seeing others.  AND I don’t have to go very long before cleaning this. Another perk.

But, it’s still bird poop, a mysterious hybrid of solid and liquid waste. Birds eat worms and seeds, so essentially I have digested worm and bird food on my jacket. Delightful. It’s still on me, and it is still gross (though thankfully not too smelly). I can certainly see the silver lining of this particular unfortunate timing on the part of this bird and me, but I don’t consider it good luck. It seems much closer to Murphy's Law. Consider this a challenge to anyone who has been pooped on an equal number of times, or at an equal rate, to prove me otherwise.

Happy Friday… the 13^th ;-)