Lesson learned this week: Psychics on Melrose have the accuracy of a Magic 8 Ball
I do not like to feel bad. If I have a sore throat, a bump on my arm, or a headache, I am immediately online searching for remedies. That goes for emotions, as well. So it goes without saying that I have done everything I could think of during these past few months to cure my lovesickness.
In my quest to feel better, I have tried exercise, distractions in the form of happy movies (to cheer myself up) and sad movies (to just get a good cry out), retail therapy, and self-help books. I’ve opened up with friends about my desire to punch my ex in the balls and conversely sworn off mentioning his name ever again. I’ve even tried meditation, which never really took off since I have a serious case of ADD and couldn’t stay focused for even half of the beginner’s five minute exercises.
So when I heard my friend mention he’d recently gone to see this amazing psychic who was dead-on about his life, I thought why not give it a try. In hindsight, I should have realized that as a flamboyantly gay actor with a propensity for spilling his guts, he probably wasn’t too incredibly hard to figure out. But in my desperation to feel better, I hoped she might be able to offer some insight into whether I was going to be a pathetic lovelorn loser forever.
When I arrived at her iron-gated lair (what does one call a place a psychic works? an office?), she was nowhere to be found. I signed my name to the clipboard hanging on the door, left my phone number, and went to join my friend at the cafe next door. As we ate lunch, she tried to convince me that I ought not waste my money on a fortune teller. A few minutes later, she called and said she had been off wandering in the bookstore next door and hadn’t known there was anyone waiting. My skepticism kicked in. If she’s psychic, shouldn’t she know she has a client waiting?
When we sat down, she picked up a deck of tarot cards, shuffled them quickly, and spread them out in front of me. She had me pick thirteen and after I’d handed them to her, she placed them in random positions on the table. She asked me if I had any questions in particular and I said I wanted to know more about my romantic situation. She peered at the cards seriously for a moment then, running her fingers lightly over the few in front of her, she said that my cards were pretty ambiguous. She asked for more information. I said I had just gotten out of a relationship.
She studied the cards for a few minutes more then began to speak. She said that she didn’t see me having a hard time getting over the relationship. My eyes widened. I immediately wanted to stand up, point at her and cry, “crook” and demand my money back. Instead I sat for the rest of the session and tried not to roll my eyes as she explained that my cards showed that my health, including my mental state, looked good, told me in response to my question about an important decision that I was waiting to hear the answer to that if it was meant to be it would be, and that perhaps I’d be a mother this year.
In the end, I walked out of the dim room into the bright daylight of Melrose fifty dollars poorer, my eyes rolled permanently back into my head, and wishing I had taken my friends’ advice. I’d probably still have been lovesick, but at least I’d have had the cash to go and get a manicure.
