Opening an umbrella indoors brings bad luck

Carlos: Uy, Mia, can you hand me the umbrella? I want to check if the ribs are bent.

Mia: Wait—huwag! Don’t open that here!

Carlos: Why not? It’s not even raining inside your living room.

Mia: You know why. Opening an umbrella indoors brings bad luck. My lola said it, my mom says it, and I believe it.

Carlos: Mia, your lola also told us that if we jump on New Year’s Eve we’ll get taller. We’re both still five-foot-nothing.

Mia: Uy, that’s different! This one feels… I don’t know… dangerous. Every time someone opens an umbrella indoors, something goes wrong.

Carlos: Example?

Mia: Okay—last year, my cousin Paolo opened his golf umbrella in the kitchen. Two days later, his phone broke and his girlfriend broke up with him.

Carlos: Mia… Paolo’s phone was already cracked before that, and he and his girlfriend fought every week. The umbrella didn’t do anything except block the kitchen light.

Mia: Still! It’s a sign. Why risk it?

Carlos: You’re acting like the umbrella has magical powers. It’s nylon, metal, and a weird smell when it’s wet. That’s it.

Mia: Science can’t explain everything, you know.

Carlos: True, but science can explain umbrellas. Indoor accidents used to happen because houses were small, ceilings were low, and umbrellas had sharp wooden spikes. People broke furniture and poked each other. So families just said it was “bad luck” to stop children from wrecking the house.

Mia: So you’re saying my lola was just tired of kids running around with umbrellas?

Carlos: Exactly! She was being practical, not mystical.

Mia: But what about all the times I avoided bad luck? Like last week, I refused to open my umbrella indoors, and then I found a ₱20 bill on the street. Lucky, right?

Carlos: That’s called “coincidence,” Mia. If you open the umbrella now and we don’t get struck by lightning or fired from our jobs, maybe you’ll start believing me.

Mia: Naku, lightning indoors? Don’t tempt fate!

Carlos: Okay, let’s do a deal. I’ll open the umbrella. If nothing bad happens within the next ten seconds, you buy us taho. If something bad does happen—like the umbrella suddenly transforms into a demon—you win.

Mia: Taho? Hmm. Fine. But if the electric fan stops working, that counts.

Carlos: Sure. Ready?

Mia: Wait! Let me move my mom’s picture frame. I don’t want her spirit judging me.

Carlos: Ay naku, here goes… opens umbrella

(Ten seconds pass. Nothing happens. The fan keeps spinning. The house doesn’t collapse.)

Carlos: See? We’re still alive. The only unlucky thing here is how much dust your umbrella collected.

Mia: Hmp. Maybe the bad luck comes later… like delayed onset? You know, like how symptoms appear after exposure?

Carlos: Mia, that’s not how superstition works. Or science. Or anything.

Mia: Fine, fine. I’ll admit… nothing happened. But can I still choose to believe it? It gives life a bit of mystery.

Carlos: Sure. As long as the mystery doesn’t stop you from cleaning your umbrella.

Mia: Deal. Now come on, you owe me taho—even if I technically lost the bet.

Carlos: How does that make sense?

Mia: Because I’m still emotionally distressed from this umbrella situation.

Carlos: Sige na, drama queen. Let’s go.