Why I Toss Salt Over My Shoulder (And Don’t Fucking Know Why)
I spilled salt again this morning. Not much — just a bit from the busted Walmart container that came pre-cursed, leaking into the delivery bag like it had something to say. I was already running late. My wife was not in the mood for bullshit. The dog was at the door doing her “I’m ready to start chaos” stretch. And there I was, grown-ass man, pinching salt between two fingers like I was about to hex someone — then tossing it over my left shoulder without thinking.
No pause. No hesitation. Just vibes and muscle memory.
I do this every time. Every single time. I toss salt over my shoulder like some medieval peasant trying to keep the devil at bay. And I have no fucking clue why. Nobody taught me. There’s no religion behind it. It’s not ironic. It’s not even that funny anymore.
It’s just a ritual I can’t stop doing.
Like a goalie muttering to the post before a penalty kick. Like tying your boots a certain way before a job interview. Like touching wood after saying something optimistic. It doesn’t mean anything — unless you don’t do it. Then it means everything.
And maybe that’s the point.
Domestic Resistance to the Ritual
There’s a look my wife gives me when I toss salt. It’s not anger. It’s not even disappointment. It’s more like: “You are a grown man with a company, a beard, and a puppy. What in the actual fuck are you doing?” And to be fair, she’s not wrong.
Today, the Walmart salt container arrived leaking. We didn’t even open it. It was already bleeding grains through the plastic like some kind of pagan omen. My wife pulled it out of the delivery bag with her “I will murder a man with my uterus” face and said, deadpan:
“If you throw that shit over your shoulder, I swear to God, Kevin.”
So I didn’t. Not right then.
But Wilco watched me. Our puppy — who knows nothing of devils or household luck — stood by the door, head tilted, ears perked, watching like she expected me to perform a low-level summoning ritual. And I almost did. Because even if it’s dumb, even if it causes marital stress, even if I know it’s all just nonsense…
It’s still one of those rituals I can’t stop doing.
So instead, I did what any domesticated adult man would do: I waited until we were heading to the dog park… and brought the salt with me.
The Sacred Stupid: Why Men Keep Rituals Alive
Let’s be clear: I don’t believe in demons. I don’t think the devil is lurking behind me like some B-movie extra waiting to jump into my kitchen every time I drop Morton’s on the counter. But I still toss the salt. Because this isn’t about belief. It’s about ritual. And ritual has gravity.
Men, especially, carry these weird private systems — unspoken codes of movement and logic that we never explain, even to ourselves. It’s the goalie tapping the post. The baseball player stepping over the foul line. The contractor who always sharpens his pencil before measuring, even when he’s done it a hundred times. It’s dumb. It’s useless. But it’s sacred. It gives form to chaos.
It’s the sacred stupid — actions that feel like protection, even if they do nothing. And we carry them because they help us navigate a world that rarely makes sense. You lose a job, your dog gets sick, the market crashes, your wife’s uterus wages war on your kitchen — and somehow, tossing a little salt over your shoulder reminds you that you’re doing something.
That you’re not just floating.
And if you’re a certain type of man — the kind who fights entropy with superstition and coffee — that’s enough. You don’t need results. You just need the pattern. The repeated gesture. The quiet agreement with your ancestors: “I don’t get it either, but I’m keeping it going.”
This is why rituals I can’t stop doing feel like ballast. They keep the world from tipping.
And yeah, maybe it’s stupid. But so is shaving, shaking hands, or saying “bless you” when someone sneezes. The only difference is I’m flinging salt like a goddamn wizard because that’s what I was programmed to do.
Is It Belief or Just Vibes?
If you cornered me — like, really put me under a bright light and asked, “Do you actually believe something bad will happen if you don’t toss the salt?” — I’d say no.
Probably.
But that probably has teeth. That probably lives in my chest like a little superstition goblin whispering, “Yeah but what if?” And the problem is, once you hear that voice, it never really shuts up.
I don’t believe in curses. I don’t believe in luck. I don’t believe the universe has a personal stake in my morning routine. But I also don’t believe in taking unnecessary risks with cosmic inertia. It’s not about belief — it’s about vibe insurance. It’s about warding off the intangible. Not because you think it’s real, but because you felt it shift once and you remember how it felt.
This is the emotional logic of rituals I can’t stop doing.
It’s not religion. It’s not even superstition.
It’s a soft paranoia layered over generations — handed down through kitchens and front steps and old man mutters.
Some people light sage. Some people knock on wood. I toss salt.
Because if I don’t — if I let that moment pass unmarked — I feel it in my bones for the rest of the day. Like I’ve left a door open. Like something got in.
And honestly? That’s enough to keep me doing it.
The Walmart Saltwalk: Ritual in Motion
The salt was already leaking when it arrived — pre-spilled, like it had intent. Walmart packed it next to the peanut butter like a Trojan horse for bad vibes. I didn’t open it. I didn’t touch it. I just looked at it sitting there, bleeding into the delivery bag like a warning. Like: “This house is now cursed, Kevin. Enjoy your morning.”
I knew I couldn’t toss it in the kitchen. The wife was eyes-on. The air was thick with no-bullshit energy. One misstep and I’d be subjected to an unhinged tongue-lashing. And salt on the floor? That’s a direct path to emotional litigation.
So I did the only rational thing: I folded a few cursed grains into a tissue like I was packing drugs, slid it into my pocket, clipped the leash to Wilco’s harness, and went on our morning walk.
We reached the park. She did her usual: sniffed every goddamn thing, play-bowed at a Doberman like she was invincible, rolled in something that definitely wasn’t grass. I stood by a scraggly tree near the edge of the path and pulled out the salt.
Looked over my shoulder — no one around. Whispered,
“What was spilled is returned. No harm, no curse. May my luck be light, and my dog’s paws dry.”
And then I tossed it. Just a pinch. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make the universe nod back, like, “Alright, we’re good.”
I didn’t expect anything to change. But I felt better.
Lighter. Like I’d offloaded something old and heavy I wasn’t even aware I’d been carrying.
This is what rituals I can’t stop doing really are: little ways to put the balance back. Whether they work or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that I walk home without a shadow in my pocket.
I’ll Toss Salt ‘Til I Die
I’ve made peace with it: I’m going to toss salt for the rest of my life.
I’m 40. I run a private intelligence firm. I’ve read Foucault, filed taxes, buried a dog, and helped a puppy learn how to heel. I know what’s real and what isn’t. And still, I spill salt and feel a twitch in my spine like I’ve just torn a hole in the veil. Like something’s watching. Waiting. Not malevolent — just… patient.
So I toss. Always left shoulder. Always instinctively. Sometimes muttering. Sometimes not. Never sure if it matters, but never willing to skip it either.
Because I’ve learned that not everything has to make sense.
That you can reject religion, laugh at superstition, and still keep a few irrational gestures tucked in your pocket like talismans.
These rituals I can’t stop doing — they’re not belief. They’re not habit.
They’re a kind of quiet deal I’ve made with the world.
I don’t ask for much. Just let the tires stay inflated, the power stay on, the dog stay healthy, and the people I love stay alive.
In exchange?
I’ll keep tossing salt. No questions asked.