I almost never listen to my mother. Not as a rule, it’s more of a lifetime of practice. But this morning she sent me a picture via text “mums from mum xo”. Come on, that’s pretty damn cute. She followed it up with a detailed voicemail about a butterfly… I won’t relay the entire message, but she closed by saying “Don’t forget to stop and smell the roses today.” OK, not a new idea, but one I needed to hear.
Like most mornings lately, I left my apartment in a BushPalinEconomicCrisisAnti-ChoiceImpendingRecession-induced state of panic. I seriously needed to stop and smell the roses. But first I had to thank old G. Dubbs for canceling his magical mystery tour to deliver those assuaging 120 seconds of nothingness. Its not so much what he says but the way he says it. You’ll be hard-pressed to find anything more comforting than a man talking at you with a furrowed brow and a dirty frat-boy snarl…. We get it man, showing up for the last week of school blows.
OK, back to the roses.
I’m starting to think that some of my mom’s ideas aren’t half bad. If only I thought that a few months ago before foolishly handing over 700 bucks to Pat the Psychic on 9th Street. Trust me, I’m clear on how fucking stupid that sounds. But you should at least know all the circumstances before rightly passing judgment. I was in a state of despair. I didn’t land a big job even after putting in loads of preparation for it. And, my boyfriend and I were maybe going to break up. And, well, it was just those 2 things, which I now admit don’t sound so bad, but you can imagine how my world was crumbling.
So, I was down on 6th & B with Sally. We’d just gotten massages and I was headed home for the afternoon. Moments on the other side of Tompkins Square Park, the sky unleashed and I ran for cover. After trying on 13 of the shelter shop’s 18 dresses, I purchased one, which I’ve since worn twice. I got the feeling I was wearing out my welcome and left to brave the kind of rain that smarts. As I ran along the buildings I spotted a bucket of umbrellas. I ducked into that shop. Ew. Pet shop. Cats. Everywhere. $30 umbrellas. With cats on them. No thank you. Out again and into the next doorway. Pat and her crystal ball. Smoking Marlboro reds. Kids watching TV in the background. Surely if anyone knew my future it was this woman. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s do a reading. $5.” I run my mother’s 8,000 clear warnings against psychics, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, Judas Priest, through my head and promptly take a seat. Sure. Here’s my palm, read it. Come on Mom, the rain, the dress shop, the yellow sky, the cats, the serendipitous refuge?
Pat tells me something for my $5 that makes me want to hear more for an additional $20. Sadly, the only thing I remember her telling me is that I have a fear of not having money but I’ve always had money and always will have money. Uh-huh. This next part gets blurry, but the gist of it is, me running through the rain to the nearest ATM to get a deposit on 3 crystals and 2 candles. I take my candle and my crystals, which turn out to be nothing more than rocks found in any suburban driveway. Pat keeps the other, which of course I pay for. She’ll burn this tonight while she does whatever it is to get to my past life. Oooh. I’m instructed to carry my rocks with me at all times, sleep with them under my pillow, burn the candle and meditate for 20 minutes before going to bed, sleep in all white, don’t have sex and call her in the morning. And definitely, don’t tell anyone about any of this.
To what end you ask? To make peace with Omar, a Middle Eastern man I wronged in a past life so he will let go of me. Then we can close the door to my past life and open doors for this life. Pat asks me if things seem like they’re about to happen but then they don’t?… Yes! That job! That’s right, nothing in my entire 34 years has ever come to fruition. Omar is holding me back.
I take my rocks and creepy white candle shaped sort of like the Venus of Willendorf and head home. I follow all the instructions and call Pat the next day. Nothing happened. He’s still there. Hard to believe, I know. She instructs me to repeat everything again and adds, “Don’t eat meat.” OK, Pat, you got it. No meat.
For the next 3 nights I perform this ridiculous ritual. Meditating. Asking Omar for forgiveness, the whole bit. I call Pat again. Nothing. It’s not working. She needs to see me in person.
By this time my weekend despair had passed and I was in a full-on shame spiral for giving a psychic 700 bucks. I mean, I could’ve gotten myself a pair of Louboutin’s or half of a Chloe bag. Seriously, I’m not telling a soul. I secretly see Pat again. This time she tells me I need a crystal and a candle for every year of my life. Sure I say. Then it hits me. I quickly do the math, which I can’t believe I actually do, and burst into laughter. Pat thinks I’m about to shell over $10,200 so we can once and for all get rid of Omar. I look at her like she’s out of her mind, which she is, and she tries the old “You’re afraid of not having money but you’ve always had money routine”. I head for the door.
A few weeks pass and I’m so embarrassed I haven’t even told my shrink, who I happened to been crying poor to for the past 6 months. Then one weekend I’m out in Fire Island with some friends. This super cool woman Gaby of www.gabysgourmetgranola.com is there too. She has this calming presence. She starts talking about Karma. Suddenly I’m confessing everything about Pat and we’re all laughing. Fuck Pat. But then I thank Pat because I remember there’s no comfort in secrets. It becomes clear to me that everything I was looking to hear from Pat was already in me. I even knew, that assuming I did fuck with this guy Omar in a past life, that on the first night I meditated, everything was cool between us. And above all, we don’t get to know the future. We just don’t.
On my way home tonight I noticed the first smell of fall in the air, a wood-burning fire.
