An Anniversary Not to Remember

           Originally, my wedding anniversary was March 15. On my wedding day, I was not warned by any soothsayer like Julius Caesar was, but then again, things didn’t turn out as tragic or as fatal as it did for him. However, the Ides of March were, and apparently, are not that auspicious either, according to a numerologist my wife saw over a year ago.

In Taiwan, numerology goes beyond simply birthdates. The number 8, for example, is extremely lucky because of its similar sound to the Chinese word for “wealth”. Thus, the more 8’s on your license plate, the better everyone else knows that you paid extra for registering your Mercedes. At the other end of the spectrum, 4, due to its homophonic qualities to the word for “death”, is shunned. Elevator buttons on buildings, particularly hospitals, do not have a fourth floor.

Parents-to-be carefully search for names with fortunate stroke-counts or are made up of words which have roots from favorable numbers. If, in the future, they feel that they were mistaken the first time, undoubtedly evident by a child’s lagging school grades, parents change their child’s name in order to find that right combination, usually with the paid advice of a fortuneteller.

I think that all of this started centuries ago with the ultimate numerological prize, the numbers racket. Seen as a way to raise funds, the predecessors to the triads created a whole mythology to the game in order to entice more players. The evolution of it is mind-numbing. Info-mercials offer silver or platinum bracelets engraved with your own personalized lucky number ensure protection, prosperity and happiness. Calendars and call-in shows dispense advice on dates for various actions, from installing an oven to opening a business. Women plan Cesareans down the half-hour to give their child a promising beginning.

When I first moved to Taiwan, I witnessed a huge man (by Taiwan standards), 6’3”, easily 125 kg, wearing a small, triangular, red, satin halter over his chest and huge gut, holding a child’s school chair, one leg of which was longer and used as a writing tool. Those seeking enlightenment would ask a question, for example, the winning number for the Hong Kong lotto, which at the time was the basis for the local underground numbers games. Then, the behemoth, already in an eyes-rolled-back trance signifying that the resident god of the temple had entered his corporal self, would take up the chair with an assistant and proceed to “write” on a square wooden desk. The hopeful would watch how the longer leg glided across the desk’s surface and try to interpret the word the shaman was sketching. If they guessed incorrectly, he would return to the top of the square and repeat writing the word. If correct, he would bang the chair on the desktop loudly a few times, seemingly saying “Hallelujah! Now go win some money and don’t forget to make your offering.”

However, then came the tricky part. The devotees needed to translate the character or characters into numbers. Let’s say the medium wrote the Chinese words for “airplane”. Would it be the stroke count of the words? Maybe “747”! How about “DC-10”, with the “D” substituted with “4” and the “C” being “3”, so the answer would be 33 (43-10=33). Or maybe it was the flight numbers for a crash that occurred a week before, emphasizing how a silver lining can be found anywhere.

As for my anniversary, the problem wasn’t March 15, a great date that prevented me from committing the faux pas of forgetting it. The root of our supernatural numerical miscalculation stemmed from a deeper, more arcane, more (dare I use the word) Oriental belief. It seems that my lunar birthdate combined with my wife’s cannot allow us to reach our optimum potential if we are married in the second month of the lunar calendar. It was actual much easier to explain it in Chinese, which sort of added to the mystery of it all.

After my wife explained it to me, I asked, in my deepest Tonto-voice, “So, Kemosabe, in how many moons do we renew our vows?” When she replied, “Who’s Gimme-Wasabi?” I asked for details on how to remedy our numerical plight, thinking that there would be some sort of Buddhist/Taoist ceremony or at least a bunch of paperwork that needed to be stamped.

A photo shoot was required. That’s all, just a couple of pictures done on an auspicious day chosen by my wife’s number guy. No holy water or rice wine spread around the couple or a feast afterwards. No kitchenware to be busted or ghost money to be burnt. The only witnesses were the photographer and his assistant. We showed up at the wedding boutique of a friend, where my wife got into a gown and some hair extensions and looked great, while I had to squeeze into some formal wear. The actual session lasted for about an hour and a half, an hour shorter than the one we did more than two and a half decades before, to the relief of both of us.

The later photo-shopping made my wife look even younger while I looked like an Irish thug in a tux. She put them on Facebook, so old high school “friends” I haven’t spoken to in decades were congratulating and wishing us good luck, like she was my new Asian mail-order bride.

            The jury is still out as to whether the change has made any real difference. My wife, looking at the glass half-full, says that since business hasn’t gone down, it has helped. Me, on the other hand, can’t help but wonder why these “experts” don’t take their own advice and live the good life. I’ve been told it’s because they wish to impart their wisdom to the masses, sort of like Buddhist bodhisattvas who could have gone to Nirvana, but decided to stick around to help direct our poor souls. However, for a small fee, of course.