Two Sides of Us

My father used to tell me if I looked up the word stubborn in the dictionary, I would see a lovely photograph of his face as the definition.

I used to laugh and found the very thought silly; aren’t all Greeks equally stubborn? In any case, this was coming from a Gemini, someone whose essence is rooted in air… implying some level of flexibility.

The second I read what being a Taurus was about, I knew I was born under the right stars (so to speak). For one, cows are my favourite animals. Second, my favourite place to be is outside in the forest, hands in the dirt, in the heart of nature. Third, I don’t just fall in love, I fall head over heels multiplied by a factor of one thousand.

Me, stubborn? That’s a euphemism. Anyone who knows me understands I am set in my ways, I do not like changes, and that I would fight to the ends of the Earth if needed to protect them and keep them safe.

Dad, I think Webster’s going to borrow one of my Instagram photos for their latest edition.

As I grew up to be a scientist, I believed less and less in the astrological meaning of life. After all, when we are born is completely dependent on when we are conceived. Since fifty percent of pregnancies are unplanned, I doubt there’s little more than randomness determining our birth dates.

Then I hear of the less funny sides to these beliefs. Folks wanting labour induced weeks to months early so their child is born under a specific sign. People planning their friendships, relationships, even careers around the human-made significance behind their birthday.

In daily conversations, I hear people justifying or condoning behaviours based on which planet rules them. Dating someone manipulative? They must be a Gemini. Friends with someone who collects resentment like social media apps? Definitely a Scorpio. People become so invested in these identities they go as far as list them on their dating profiles, social media handles, or tattoo them (albeit beautifully) on their bodies.

The psychology minor in me finds this fascinating. The human need to conform, to find ourselves, to have easily identifiable boxes in which to pigeon-hole ourselves so others can see us more clearly, so we can see others precisely as they are within a few moments of meeting them.

If only the road to happiness and success were a paved astrological highway with stars as lamp posts.

I can say with certainty my astrological sign was not mentioned anywhere on my Hinge dating profile in February 2020. I considered adding it but figured I should focus on my coming-out journey rather than people not wanting to date a stubborn Taurus going through a rigorous medical residency. When I matched with the girl who is now my partner, she wasn’t quick to share her astrological sign either.

What is hers, you may ask? If I tell you, I promise you will laugh.

Let’s see if you can guess.

She radiates self-confidence. Heads inevitably turn towards her when she enters a room because she has that little thing called swag. Her movements are liquid fire, and I don’t use the term lightly just because she is a redhead. Like the season she’s born in, crops and flowers rise from within her very footsteps. Her flames can have a dark side, and her anger is a thing to be feared. Her words can start wars within the stoniest of souls, but with me, they nourish and give me life I never knew I had within.

The Ram and the Bull locked forever in their eternal dance.

We laughed when we inevitably checked the compatibility of our signs together. One website quoted a 38% overall compatibility rating between Aries and Taurus. Another stated The Hero (her) and The Lover (me) were “a couple worth watching” since “opposites attract”.

Did I mention astrology is terribly heteronormative? Good luck trying to find LGTBQ-friendly interpretations of your sign.

In any case, we’ve opted to leave the stars out of our relationship and let the cards, so to speak, play out the way they are meant to.

Perhaps my photograph is better listed under realist, after all. You’re welcome, Dad.