I have a theory that a woman becomes a witch on her 33rd birthday. Or some do. It’s kinda like finding out you’re going to Hogwarts at 11, but without the personalized owl invitations. I think I might be becoming a witch.
I know that’s really arrogant to assume. Also a bit unhinged. But whatever. I’ve been voicing my birthday theory aloud more and more. Sober. Stoned. In meetings. At happy hours. I mentioned it to some of my coworkers at the office holiday party last week, and Becky with the Good Hair was intrigued.
“How do you know if you’ve become a witch?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “I think maybe the universe gives you signs.”
“And why your 33rd birthday?”
“Because 3 times 3 is 9, and ‘9 is a witchy number,'” I said, quoting Rayanne Graff, from the Nicky Driscoll episode of My So-Called Life. “Also, 32 has been a big year for me personally, and I think the world revolves around me.”
She laughed and I was glad. I was also pretty high.