Twelve weeks

This week I realized that the season four finale of Mad Men aired on the same night that my aunt Bev died. This event set off seventeen months of crappy stuff happening in what felt like a personalized attack on me and my loved ones, especially my uncle Dave and a certain ginger-haired, ginger-souled boy.

On Sunday night, Mad Men finally returned to make the world right again.

I am not superstitious, but I’ll sign up for whatever mythology/spirituality/ belief system that will give my people some peace. I’ve settled on Mad Men. For the next twelve weeks, as season five unfolds, I expect no bad stuff to happen. Nothing will die—not mothers, not uncles, not fathers, not cats, and not dreams. We will have twelve glorious weeks of high art on the TV and low drama in our real lives.

I’m crossing my fingers, wearing my lucky socks, tossing salt where I’m supposed to toss it, and putting all my faith in Mad Men.