SWITCHING GEARS

Last Laugh
BEST YEAR EVER By
Lauren Hammack
I NEVER RING IN A NEW YEAR WITH A LOT OF FANFARE.
Halloween has always been my holiday of choice because I enthusiastically
endorse any opportunity to assume another identity and
consume candy with abandon.
New Year’s, on the other hand, is perennially overhyped like a
summer blockbuster – a sure sign of impending disappointment.
It’s also a holiday that’s annoyingly aligned with hangovers, new
diets, new workouts and black-eyed peas.
Ordinarily, I’d choose the hangover 10 times out of 10 if I hadn’t
recently become so superstitious about the black-eyed peas.
In my universe, hangovers, diets and workouts have a shelf life
of about 24 hours, but skipping the black-eyed peas carries a minimum
sentence of 365 days. If 2014 has taught me anything, it’s not
to trifle with those.
Purported to bring good luck to those who eat them on New
Year’s Day, black-eyed peas had been my annual staple for years.
But after a string of uneventful years – not lucky, not bad, just
OK – I concluded that the “good luck” promise was a myth, probably
concocted by charlatan landlords to make the serfs mind their
black-eyed pea crops. The next thing you know, the serfs are telling
their serf babies and then the grandserfs, who all grow up believing
they’re lucky to be serfs (thanks, no doubt, to the New Year’s Day
consumption of black-eyed peas).
This time last year, right there in my neighborhood Homeland, I
convinced myself that I’d be the serf to expose the myth as I strolled
right past the canned vegetable aisle with my nose in the air, dismissing
the black-eyed peas as nothing more than the fodder of
feudal propaganda.
What kind of risk was I taking, after all Not once have I ever
heard a lottery winner exclaim, “And it’s all because I ate black-eyed
peas on New Year’s Day!” Black-eyed peas never get props from the
person with the winning raffle ticket, or the guy who finds a billfold
full of cash (with no ID inside, of course) or from the 12th caller.
Face it: black-eyed peas just don’t have the same clout as more
legitimate, luck-bringing currency – the rabbit’s foot, the four-leaf
clover, the winning half of the wishbone or even the parking lot
penny. BEPs are the wannabe-harbingers of good luck, with all the
Doomsday-ready convenience of a can.
Convinced there would be no measurable downside to skipping
my annual serving of black-eyed peas, I moved on to the Christmas
candy aisle, where I nabbed some half-price peppermint bark with
a hard, crunchy consistency that was remarkably similar to the
hard, crunchy consistency of the molar that broke in half as I
was eating the bark.
And it was only January 2.
The broken tooth, it turns out, was one of the
brighter spots of 2014.
When I told a friend last fall that 2014 was the worst
year ever, he shook his head and warned me, “If you
don’t stop saying that, you’re going to manifest it.”
But at that point, it was too late; manifestation of the Year of the
Devil was well underway, operating on all 365 cylinders.
If 2014 had been Jack Ruby, then I was Oswald,
a guy who, according to most historians
(and feudal lords), did not eat any
black-eyed peas on January 1, 1963.
As someone whose default
setting is happy and optimistic
(without pharmaceuticals),
I doubted that I
could be the manifester
of such an inauspicious
year. My mindset
would have manifested
a year of joy, celebration,
friendship and kindness
for me and for everyone
around me. Halfway
through, it was clear that
my 2014 had been hijacked by a
chimp with a loaded pistol, obviously
sanctioned by the devil.
Refusing to concede 2014 to the
chimp, I’ve decided that last year’s misfortunes
point right back to an unopened
can of black-eyed peas. This year, taking no
chances, I will ring in the New Year at
midnight, armed with a can opener
in one hand and a double helping
of black-eyed peas on my table.
If I’m manifesting anything
for 2015, it is divine reciprocity to
bring my world back into alignment and
bring light where there has been darkness. For you, kind
reader, I’d like to manifest the best year ever, with all the joy, laughter
and promise of good fortune that every new year brings.
But if I were you, I’d still eat the black-eyed peas, just in case.
Happy New Year!
86 SLICE // JANUARY 2015