The Omen

You Can, In Fact, Make This Shit Up.

One big problem for me is my tendency to imagine portents in my everyday routines. If I have to say hello to my annoying neighbor on my run, it does not bode well. If I don’t have enough oat milk creamer for my coffee, disaster is nigh. My latest prognosticative tool is Wordle.

For those of you unfamiliar with Wordle, it’s a game where you have six chances to guess a five-letter word, ruling out letters and placement along the way. I generally can get the word right in four attempts, less frequently three or five, and on two occasions each, two and six. I have never not gotten the answer, and after telling you this I have of course jinxed myself, and yes, jinxing is another one of my big problems.

But back to Wordle, which I play on my phone every morning whilst riding my stationery bike. For the first four days after I was introduced to Wordle, I found it entertaining, and then, true to form, I turned an enjoyable pastime into a bellwether of fate.

I am not asking for pity here, or even understanding. I am just making an observation. Interestingly, the days I solved the Wordle in two attempts were not particularly good days, and the days it took me six tries were actually pretty okay. So, in reality, there is zero correlation between my Wordle scores and the future. In my head, well, that’s a whole ‘nother story.

This morning, I got the Wordle word in three tries. A decent sign, if you’re me, or irrelevant, if you’re a regular person. Whatever psychological urge to link my Wordle score to my immediate destiny has no attachment to outcome, but can’t resist the set-up: my little existence vs. the fate hanging in the balance.