When I was 13 years old, I fell from a shower stall and gashed my calf with a porcelain soap dish. I was horse playing and probably deserved it. In the emergency room while getting stitches, the doctor joked that some folks would be happy to be getting some liposuction done (there was a lot of fat tissue in my wound and it was removed so that it could be closed properly). He meant well and as I recall, was a nice and professional surgeon. At the 13th stitch the doctor asked me if I wanted another—hinting that the 13 stitch was unlucky. I carelessly said “no”. I wasn’t superstitious but he obviously was.
According to wiki, the fear of Friday the 13th is called friggatriskaidekaphobia (Frigga being the name of the Norse goddess for whom “Friday” is named and triskaidekaphobia meaning fear of the number thirteen), a concatenation of the Greek words Paraskeví or paraskevidekatriaphobia (Παρασκευή, meaning “Friday”), and dekatreís (δεκατρείς, meaning “thirteen”) attached to phobía (φοβία, from phóbos, φόβος, meaning “fear”). The latter word was derived in 1911 and first appeared in a mainstream source in 1953.
I’m not Greek or Scandinavian so superstitious isn’t a character trait of mine, nor a family tradition. My mother would cry reading this, but I use the ‘Lord’s name is vain’ about once a day. I walk under ladders. And I love to cross the paths of black cats. I do however knock on wood, and say “jinx” with friends. I guess it takes away from the unlucky 13 stitches given at the age of 13. My stitches are still visible till this day. If you ask me, I’ll show them to you for a dollar.