For the most part, I’m pragmatic. Okay, that’s a lie. I believe way too many celebrity conspiracy theories, think the show Ghost Adventures is good television, and will passionately recount the one suburban legend my town has to anyone who will listen. But when it comes down to it, I treat the paranormal with healthy skepticism; I’m open to the possibility of extraterrestrial life, but would never go so far as to wear a tin foil hat.
That’s also how I felt about psychics–I’d be open to what a mystic might say about my future but wouldn’t let their reading be condemning. Over time, this attitude of passive curiosity manifested itself in an elaborate fantasy about seeking refuge in a strange manor during a terrible storm, and having my destiny delivered to me by a kind medium with striking purple eyes and a pet raven. Since I’m not a member of the Scooby Doo universe this never happened, so when I saw a sign for a psychic while on vacation in Portland, Maine the summer before my freshman year, I went for it.
For five dollars, I could get information about any two aspects of my future. I chose “career” first, because that seemed practical, and then “love life” because–let’s be honest–that’s the reason I was there. I wanted her to say something like “you’ll meet your soul mate during a thunderstorm,” or “you’ll know he’s the one when he brings flowers.” Something I could quote in a speech at my future engagement party.
She closed her eyes and assessed my vibe/looked into my soul. She said I had a strong affinity for helping and healing, suggesting that I’d work in medicine. I didn’t have the heart to say “no way in hell.” Then, she said I’ll meet my future husband when I’m 24 and that he’ll be “smart and nice” which is too generic to quote in my engagement speech. Still, I hoped that this reading would initiate a series of cosmic adventures and send me toward my destiny, which I guess was a donut store because that’s the only other thing I remember from that day.
Last spring, I got the itch again. After recounting my psychic tale to friends, they became interested in the phenomenon, so we decided to go to the psychic on Thayer Street together. This time, I hoped to get a deeper reading–confirmation that my kids wouldn’t be hooligans, that I’d be one of those dynamic elderly people they show on the news who picks up downhill skiing in their nineties–while nursing a secret hope that she’d tell me something more revelatory about my love life. (Ideally, that I would literally fall into the arms of the love of my life immediately after leaving her office).
The local psychic was more thorough with the vibe-assessing, noting that my aura was orange and turquoise, which made me happy because that’s an aesthetically pleasing color combination. Upon further research it seems that orange is associated with creativity and empathy, while turquoise is the aura of a healer. My two psychics were in agreement! They both want me to go to enroll in Orgo! No way in hell!
Finally, she delivered the much anticipated romantic forecast, saying that I’d be in love with a man from my past, my present, and my future before I got married. Ever since she “Scrooged” me, this omen has felt like my own personal Jacob Marley, haunting me into the late hours of the night. Is there someone from my past whom I do not have “closure” with? Could “present” include that cute stranger I briefly made eye contact with three weeks ago? Why do I have such a strong feeling that the “well known, older man” from my future will be an indie rock star, and that I’ll have to break up with him because I can’t deal with the tabloid drama!?
This uncertainty aside, I’m glad I got a second reading—and not just because I can tell people my life is a Charles Dickens novel. Sometimes it’s nice to suspend reality and pay a visit to an invisible beyond through tarot cards and crystal balls. I don’t know if I need a third reading (because then I might actually have to consider medical school) but if someone grabbed my palm and started reading it, I probably wouldn’t stop them.
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