Horoscopes are stupid.
Everyone knows that. A few coworkers gather everyday at lunch and go over their own. They think it’s hilarious, and I eavesdroppingly agree. One girl ceremoniously opens the Daily News and divvies out star-driven prophesies to eager smiles as the group eat their sandwiches. They’re ridiculous, and you can hear the laughter echoes off the windows as their future’s unravel.
So what am I doing checking my own horoscope? Why am I actually reading about the moon’s orbit late into the month of May, or how a Gemini handles stress? Even worse, why am I taking a faceless astrologer’s opinion so seriously on my star sign compatibility with a Libra? I find myself reading these horoscopes and rolling my eyes, yet I keep reading. I’ve also taken read and re-read my Myers-Briggs personality (I’m a classic ENFP) and held onto my fortune cookie philosophy today.
I blame the move. The stressful job. I blame the Libra. And the fact that I can’t handle change, so I am grasping at straws and avoiding wrapping my plates in newspaper.
There’s no horoscope in the world that will say what I want. Until then, I’ll listen to the lunch-time snickers and cross my fingers about the move, the change, the stars. It’s not like I can see them in this city anyway.
