Wizard-of-oz

I Think My Psychic is Sexist

Wizard-of-oz

Last month I saw a psychic for the first time.

“I don’t actually believe it,” I assured my coworkers a few days prior. “I’m just curious.” And I was: my friend had raved about the ways in which this particular psychic could predict momentous life occasions.

Having reached the bottom of my career to-do-list (work at a desk/wear a pant suit/promotion/travel for work), I was at a loss as to where I wanted to go next. Being indecisive but never one to sit still, I thought an outsider’s perspective could point me in a direction I hadn’t thought of yet.

The possibilities of what lay in my mystical future were endless and exciting. And even if they were but a fantasy, I liked the idea of hearing about them from a stranger who hopefully looked like Stevie Nicks in the latest Rodarte collection.

I arrived at the psychic’s door and range the bell. I was buzzed in and greeted by a sweet lady in her sixties who was less Stevie and more Angela Lansbury. I sat down and she immediately and correctly proclaimed my star sign.

“You’re a Libra.”

I looked at her with a sheepish smile.

“I can tell just from the way you’re sitting.” Apparently nervously entwining your arms and hunching over a table are classic tell-tale signs of a Libra – or a socially awkward Pilates move.

She began shuffling tarot cards while talking me through the process. She asked what I wanted to know about and I said my career. I then chose some cards from her deck and it began.

As she flipped over each card she explained its meaning and how it related to me at lightening speed. And with each and every one I became more and more convinced of her abilities. She described my parent’s personalities impressively accurately. She identified why my last relationship ended in great detail before going on to tell me I was very happy in my current relationship.

Having hit the nail on the head of my current situation, she then proceeded to paint a picture of my future life. I was to be happily married with children, potentially living overseas. She delved into my current partner and how well suited we were and how he would be a great provider.

This wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. It wasn’t not what I wanted to hear either. It’s just not the future I had hoped she’d tell me about.

I prompted her about my career as she dealt the cards again and I waited for revelations on my future empire. Would I start my own business? Invent an app? Re-invent post-its?

“I can see two men,” she said vaguely. “Richard and Michael. I think they might be your future employers. Yes I see you working for two men. Do you know anyone by those names?”

I did, although who doesn’t? And I certainly couldn’t see them going into business together let alone hiring me? And I’d be doing what exactly?

“It will be in the PR industry.”

This vague male-centric vision hadn’t been the revelation I’d been hoping for. Where was the “I see you being CEO” motivational reading? My future mentions were free of progression or promotions. Instead it was men first, then me.

As disappointed as I was, I didn’t feel Madame Angela Lansbury was completely at fault. Perhaps her slightly sexist reading was reflective of her typical clientele than her own beliefs. Maybe over years of shuffling she’d been so bombarded with Will I meet Mr Right?-type questions that she’s now on autopilot.

It was then, in between another tarot card shuffle, that I had my own psychic revelation; instead of relying on a stranger to tell me what I wanted to hear, I needed to listen to my instinct, take action and update my resume. If there’s truth to the self-fulfilling prophecy, then who better to predict the future than myself?

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