I’m not sure that I believe in God, but I am confident in the force of astrology. At my childhood home, I spend afternoons lounging on the blue suede sofa, a paperback Astrology for Lovers nestled between my thighs. My mom’s beside me in the floral armchair, meticulously meddling with her website: southfloridaastrologer.com. She hopes her friends don’t mock her. Check out the polarities page. Click on a few ads. Donate to my tuition. Abandon your horoscopes. Forget your sun signs. Reject astrological banalities. Your moon sign is your Lebron James. This is what we say to zodiac virgins. Lebron James: moon in Aries, an immediate Google search after he got pissy with a ref in the 2014 semifinals. Fucking Aries.
Twenty-seven. Fine-lines. Saturn Return. Adult acne. Supercuts. Cheap wine. Grey hair. State Farm. Carl Jung. Tax return. Old friends. C.V. Therapy. T.V. To-
Off the Hook
My eyes focused on the illustration of the fallopian tubes as Dr. Marquez fingered me with two digits and a pencil light. Poking and prodding at my cervix, I spread my thighs like I was back at cheerleading practice warming up for a jump sequence. I wondered what she might find down there…a rash? A tear? Old remains of a cheap tampon? In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I’d be thrilled to know it was my own stinginess which rendered sex impossible, and not the Judas-level betrayal of my vagina. I needed an answer, some form of explanation as to why my butterfly was dryer than the charcoal-colored dust framing my ceiling fan. Not only for me, but for my boyfriend playing Pokémon in the waiting room.
I’ve accumulated an expansive collection of theatre friends throughout my time on earth thus far. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that theatre friends are a specific breed. They’re too dramatic for “normal” friends, and too “eccentric” for the world of Instagram. They are the source of many migraines, but the solution to life’s boredom. I keep them close because they wear the same lens as me. To us, the world is rich with possibilities. Life is a stage and we’re here to shine, belly-laugh, weep, and rage. We’re romantic, idealistic, naïve, and sometimes egotistical. We crave drama. Fire. Meaning…but we don’t always get it. We feel as if the world is against us, which only increases the vibration of our connection.
Harry Potter never appealed to me. I tried, but couldn’t get in to it. Too many characters and creatures and sorting hats…I couldn’t bring myself to care. I never offer this information at parties or among acquaintances, but my closest friends are aware of my disdain and judge me appropriately. I stopped watching Game of Thrones after half the characters died—I mean, I had already seen Downton Abbey, a recovery I was still enduring. Most recently I tackled Lord of the Rings. It’s one of my boyfriend’s favorite movies, and he was certain I’d find some value in it. At the very least, he thought I’d get a kick out of “my PREEEcious.” He was right. I was struck by the beauty of the scenery, and I cackled at Gollum’s manic behavior. But I still fell asleep during the second movie, lost and un-invested. I hoped for more Gollum and less speaking in hushed tones about people and places I didn’t know. Too many details. Too many hours. Not enough emotion.