**Posted as part of Jen’s (from Sprite’s Keeper) weekly Spin Cycle.  Keep checking out this post all week long for more of the quirkiest quirks on the web.***

The number seven resonates with me, and I’m not sure why.  Some might call it a quirk, and I don’t really have a better explanation for it, other than to say that it’s almost like I’m wired, or programmed, to the sound of seven beats.  Does that make sense?

No?  Not at all?  I’ll try harder (I’m a hard tryer).

For example…

I’m selling loaves of bread door-to-door on a Saturday afternoon.  I approach the front door of the neighbor’s house, raise my hand to knock, and—KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  Seven knocks.  {By the way, has anyone ever noticed how ridiculous the word “knock” is?  Just look at it!  It’s absurd.}

For another example…

I’m wearing slippers in the kitchen (I always swore I’d avoid being “barefoot in the kitchen,” so now I make a special point of being slippered while I’m cooking).  I’m preparing a nice, hearty ragu to serve over tonight’s linguine.  It’s going to be delicious.  I dip my little finger in the vibrant red concoction, and raise it to my mouth for a taste.  Needs salt. I reach for the sea salt grinder, remove the lid, position it over the pot, and—BACK FORTH BACK FORTH BACK FORTH BACK.  Seven turns of the sea salt grinder.

I brush my hair with seven fluid strokes.  I rinse my face with seven handfuls of water.  Seven swipes of deodorant (which is way too much, but I can’t stop at just two or three).  Seven swishes of salt water in my wounded mouth.  When I used to play sports, it was seven solid dribbles before a basketball free-throw, and seven bounces before a volleyball serve.  Seven times, played without mistakes, means I’ve properly learned a run on the piano.  When passing a slow driver, I let the blinker click seven times—exactly seven—before I turn it off.

Seven…always seven.

But it’s not like I suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder.  I’m not anal; heaven knows I’m not a neat freak—my kitchen floor hasn’t seen a mop in weeks, and I sort of take pride in the fact that I’ve never once cleaned the windows of this house (I’ve lived here almost two years).  So what’s with me and all the sevens?

The only reasonable explanation I can formulate is that I’m just…programmed…to the number seven.  I mean, think about it:  I was born on September 25th (2+5=7!!!!), 1986 (9,8,7!!!!,6).  My name, C-A-M-I-L-L-E?  Seven letters long.

I’m not fluent in ASL, but I nevertheless happen to believe that “7” is the coolest number to sign.

Quite frankly, I won’t be one bit surprised if I die and resurrect seven times, or my children are all born with seven toes on each foot—the extent of my wiring is just that deep.

The real irony of this whole Situation of the Sevens is that I don’t even like odd numbers.

They creep me out.

Are any of you wired to a number like me, or am I just whackadoo?  Actually, no.  Please don’t answer that.

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