Existence means choices, and choices are stressful. Classes, hairstyles, lunch. What a relief it would be to surrender responsibility to the universe, to know what I’ll do before I have to choose.
Last Saturday morning, I wasn’t up to making any decisions. I was tired and hungry—I had a ton of work piling up; my roommate had eaten my last granola bar—and the burden of choice was too heavy to bear.
So I went to Medford. My aim: Mrs. Hope, a professional tarot-reader and the key to my future. A diminutive, dark-haired woman, she met me at the door and led me to her parlor. She laid out the cards.
“You have a strong background and will help others,” she told me. Yet, she added, I had recently been experiencing indecision, sleeplessness, and “financial worries.”
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“Actually, yes. This may seem a little silly,” I began, “But—could you predict my immediate future? Like, today?”
“It’s not as if I can tell you you’re going to Dunkin’ Donuts,” she said, grasping my palms in her soft hands. But she told me what she could tell me: I would argue with another woman, I would be busy, and I would be stressed.
After I paid Mrs. Hope, she assured me of future success and showed me out.
On the walk to the T stop, I passed a Dunkin’ Donuts. Rifling through my wallet, I remembered what Mrs. Hope had said. The thirty dollars I paid for the reading were, it turned out, money well spent: her assessment of my finances was spot-on.
It was 11 a.m. on Saturday morning, a mere two hours into my day, and the metaphysical was already threatening to overwhelm me. I wanted a pastry; this granola bar thing—as Mrs. Hope predicted—was going to escalate into a full-on roommate battle. I was tempted for a moment in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts, but a pang from my empty wallet told me it just wasn’t in the cards.
