In Retrograde

Single Gal

Relax ~ I can worry no more! I have discovered the reason for all of my recent life events. The cause of all my problems is not Ex. It is not my impending divorce. It is not my crumbling life nor my whacked out emotional state. No, it is much clearer, much simpler, much more scientific.

My problem is Jupiter.

A recent trip to Cassadaga, Florida – Spiritualist Camp extraordinaire and an adventure I highly recommend – lead me to Georgia, the psychic of my destiny. Georgia, it seems could feel me coming. She knew she’d be doing a reading for a Scorpio today, and in I walked. After plopping in my birth date, place, and time, she declares that my aura is giving her a headache. Georgia then produces a series of astrological charts, in which Jupiter, my nemesis planet, is the cause of all my undoing. Since birth, Jupiter has been stalking me, causing my life events to align and then to crash – leaving debris all over my life plan. The lines and the charts all intersect into one giant triangle, with me in the middle, and joy and happiness just out of my reach. Could be worse, Georgia says. It could have been Neptune.

“It’s causing you to cock-block your happiness”, Georgia said. “You need to cut it out”. I understand.

My “House” of Tarot finds the infamous Death Card high up on the top, peering down at all the other cards with a wicked grimace.

“You need to clean this shit out”, Georgia says. “Now”. She holds her head again, my aura apparently causing a migraine.

To start, she proclaims that I must stop talking to Ex. For good. Subtle, necessary communications are OK, but that I’ll never let go if I attempt to maintain a friendship. It startles me to hear this from a perfect stranger. It’s the same thing my friends have been telling me for weeks, but for some reason, their words fall on deaf ears. But Georgia – the self proclaimed “spooky Kabbalist” with the piercing eyes - affects me. I know I need to do this.

Second, Georgia talks about my pit of despair. “You’re such a hopeless romantic”, Georgia states, one eye slightly slanted. “And you’re stuck in the muck at the bottom of the pond. You’re going to need to pull yourself out. Slowly”. Then she pops a couple of Advil.

I nod my head and will my aura to calm down. Georgia has not mentioned any colors about me. I imagine they must clash.

Lastly, Georgia ends our session by advising me I need to figure out what I want. “Do you know?” she asks. I am taken aback. No one has asked me what I want in a very, very long time, and at this point, I truly don’t. “How are you ever going to get this House in order if you don’t know what you want? You need to make a list. Write down everything you want. And be specific. I mean REALLY specific. And don’t waiver. Or I’ll be seeing you here again next year”. She rubs her temples.

She escorts me to the door and I begin to compose my list in my head. Fuck Jupiter, I think. I’m going to find a NICE planet, like Mercury or Pluto to guide my way. I am going to make a list of the “things” I want – in life, in love, in myself – and I’m going to stick to it. And I’m going to get my “House” in order, metaphorical, figurative, literal. On my next visit, I want that Death card to be no where in sight. And for goodness’ sake, I don’t want to lay Georgia up in bed with a headache for another day.

So a list I’ve made. Stay tuned …

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