Fortune's Fool, or How I Learned My Future

Once a year while I was growing up, a carnival would pass through my town.  And let me tell you: it was the coolest place to be.  Tweens went to flirt.  High school students went to drunkenly vomit on rides.  And I, regardless, of age, went for the cotton candy.

Every year it was awesome, but the year I was in 8^th grade stands out in particular.  That was the year my friends and I visited the carnival psychic.

At first, we were skeptical.  Was a palm reading really worth $5?  And… was it dangerous?  After my first two friends had their palms read, though, I knew this psychic was legit.  She had somehow known that my adolescent friend Katy was having issues with her mom.  And she knew that Kelly had a crush on a boy at school!!!  THIS LADY WAS MAGICAL!

Trembling, I handed over my $5 and prepared to meet my fate.  Here is what I remember most:

1.  She said I intimidated boys my own age.  (So that’s why I didn’t have a boyfriend!  It had nothing to do with my braces and curly bangs!)

2.  She said I would “go east.”  (And you know what… I DID.  Because it turns out EVERYWHERE is east of California!)

3.  And she told me—drum roll please—that I would be a professional SPEAKER ON SUBSTANCE ABUSE. 

In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that most “palm readers” are merely good at measuring personalities.  We were a pack of giggling, gawky, 13-year-old girls, so of course we were dealing with crushes, “mean girls,” and helicopter parents.  The psychic was hardly taking a gamble when she told us our palms dictated such things.  But where the heck did she gather that I’d become a speaker on substance abuse?  I don’t remember sitting there with bloodshot eyes and bruises on my arms.  But for whatever reason, she looked at me and thought, “This girl… rough… substances.”

This incident came to mind last month when I was out with friends.  We walked past a psychic shop and, on a whim, decided to peek inside.

We warily swept past a burgundy velveteen curtain and found ourselves face to face with the shaman.  She was a chubby woman in a white tank top, smoking a cigarette and playing Angry Birds on her phone.

“Do you guys want tarot readings?” she demanded, sizing us up.  When I hesitated, she narrowed her eyes at me.  “You’re the one that needs this the most.  You’re the one with all the man problems!”

………...…WHAT?  So that’s how this works, then?  The magical spirits, who are apparently personally invested in my love life, gossip about me with the shaman?  Or was the shaman simply reading my aura, which said, “Help, I’m single?”

I called “bullshit,” and coldly declined the tarot reading.  I don’t need some shaman in a Beverly Hills gypsy hut to tell me where my life is going.  I already know:

I’m going to be a speaker on substance abuse.

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