On a good day, I like to consider myself a logical person—rational even, if I may go so far. However, I also put the “super” in “superstitious” and have not walked under a ladder, stepped on a crack, pocketed a tails-up coin, or let an upside-down horseshoe go uncorrected ever if memory serves, and if I have, I don’t want to know about it. I won’t even leave the television volume on 13. One time, I almost ended an Uber ride early because a black cat crossed the street ahead of us, and I just knew I was now the passenger of a hexed Toyota Corolla. So, as you can imagine, opening an umbrella indoors is absolutely off the table. First of all, I have neither the foresight nor sense to, you know, possess an umbrella, and second of all, with that umbrella, you also open a Pandora’s box of bad juju, ill fortune, and discontented vibes. I even advise companions with whom I share public space against it: I will not go down in a freak elevator accident because you didn’t want to wait until we