****I want to preface this by saying I am bed/bathroom ridden with the flu. Please don’t judge my sanity based on this post. Although all of it is true, I’m feeling sick and delirious. I promise I usually ponder much more normal things — like gardening and knitting. ****
Growing up I had a weird fascination with all things related to the future. The Jetsons wowed me with their flying cars and automatic dinner dispensers.
I dreamt about my time traveling honeymoon as Mona McFly (So innocent)
Soon that fascination turned more personal. I started wondering about my own future. When would I have my first kiss? Would my hair ever get less frizzy? Will my parents buy me a puppy? For these types of questions, I consulted the inexpensive, yet strangely accurate, 8 Ball. I truly believed that some tiny being inside that mystical orb was analyzing my future on a computer.
I would fret constantly over his decisions and eventually buried him in the bottom of our trash can when he told me Tupac was “definitely” dead and that we would never get married.
The popularity of the 8 Ball came and went as fortune telling trends changed. I soon found myself choking down disgusting Chinese food only to be awarded a fortune cookie at the end of the meal. I would crack open the plasticky cracker and squeal in delight when I saw what was in store for me. I remember changing my basketball jersey number one year to match a lucky number I had received on one of these tiny papers.
I was a believer.
Flash forward many years to Las Vegas, the land of sin, the land of neon lights, the land of… psychics in wagons on Fremont Street. I stumbled (after only a few yards of alcohol) in to Ms. Laurie’s wagon with my sister to have my fortune read. She took one look at me and decided I couldn’t be “read”. I was devastated. My sister on the other hand was the perfect candidate she announced.(Why, WHYYY???)
I didn’t give up though. I pestered and wandered and solicited outside that tiny wagon for what felt like hours…Pacing back and forth until finally she rolled her eyes and let me in.
I don’t remember much of what she said (the yards made it all a little sloshy). I do remember her continuously urging me to stay in Las Vegas though (which I didn’t). She also claimed a uniformed man was in my future (said in a city with a huge Air Force base population). My skepticism in the world of fortunes was growing.
I have since found my way back to Colorado (Despite Ms. Laurie’s urgings to remain in the desert) and had my last encounter with a man of mysticism on the street corner of downtown Denver. At approximately 2am, I nearly tripped over Melvin (I’m calling him that, exact identification of this man is protected). He looked up at me in awe and claimed he could read my fortune with a stack of homemade, cardboard Tarot cards.
Of course I obliged.
He told me that I like bossy men. And that I’m too picky for my own good. Both of which are probably true. My belief reignited.
Now here I
sit lay thinking about the future yet again. (Oh come on, don’t judge. We all do it.) I purposefully saved one technique for predicting the future — perhaps the most scientific and technical. Luckily, I am a professional. I present to you my most recent game of MASH (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House)…
(Mom please don’t have a heart attack)
According to my very official MASH reading, I will be marrying a Kiwi, having two children, working as a writer, and living in a shack in Christchurch.
The future looks pretty ok by me (As long as the shack is on the beach).