I am Cancer

I am Cancer. Hear me… cry myself to sleep at night. If you ever come across a description of Cancerians that doesn’t begin with ‘sensitive and emotional’, please send it my way, for the novelty value. When people ask me what my sign is at parties, I try to make a joke of it. I always reply: “Cancer, the emotional wreck of the zodiac.” If they know anything about astrology, they usually nod, and say: “Yeah.”

I’ve always had a difficult relationship with my star sign. As a kid, I never got those pens or mugs with ‘Cancer’ on them, due to the unfortunate connotation of the word with a truly horrible illness. You might as well buy a tee shirt, saying: “Alzheimer’s’ or ‘Syphilis.’ ‘The crab’ isn’t really a preferable appellation either, given the term generally used to describe a certain embarrassing, personal problem, referred to scientifically as ‘pthirus pubis.’

Once I’d grown out of worrying about those particular aspects of my sign, I became aware of a dazzling array of other associations, that were almost equally unpalatable. Cancerians are homebodies, they say. Cancerians are nurturers and care-givers. They are thoughtful, reflective and prone to heights of emotion. As a woman who has chosen not to have children, I’ve always resented the implication that my date of birth made me the ideal candidate to indulge in procreation.

If I’d been born a few days earlier, I’d be a Gemini. Geminis are embodied by ‘the twins’, suggesting a dual and complex nature. Geminis are said to be sociable, fun-loving and intellectual. Geminis are the cool kids, who are always the life and soul of the party, while Cancerians stay home, making soup and crying. Geminis are the supermodels, while Cancerians are the housewives. Geminis are the elves, while Cancerians are the hobbits.

I enjoy a good party. I can be fun, gregarious, and mysterious. It’s not like I hosted Christmas last year, and spent the season crying at family movies, or anything…

Therefore, it was of immense interest to me when my friend John told me that a new star sign had been added to the zodiac, earlier this year. He couldn’t remember the name, but a little, light Googling informed me that the new sign is called ‘Ophiuchus’. The evidence for its introduction is debatable, and based on the fact that the positions of the constellations have changed in the thousands of years since the twelve signs were first invented. What was of far greater interest to me, however, was the fact that, if you buy into the inclusion of Ophiuchus, the dates of the pre-existing signs get shifted around a little, making me (yes, you’ve guessed it) a Gemini.

“Aha,” I cried, excitedly, as I served John soup, and put on a chick flick, “I knew it! I was never meant to be a dreary old Cancerian! I’m an outgoing Gemini! Where’s the party?” Unfortunately, he pointed out that there was no party because of the pandemic, but if there had been, I’d have attended.

John burned his mouth on the soup and I instructed him, kindly but firmly, to suck on an ice-cube. I then brought him some milk, stroked his hair until he was feeling better, and gave him one of my teddy bears to cuddle for comfort. At that point, the protagonist of the movie we were watching had realised that he was in love his neighbour after all, so it was John’s turn to console me, as I had erupted into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. Anyhow, I digress.

Thank goodness for Ophiuchus. Because of the new sign, everything is as it should be. I can’t wait for lockdown to be over, so I can dazzle everyone at those parties with my outgoing nature, and curious charm… But, for now, I’ll just give the cat a manicure, and water the pot plants.