I’m not one to believe in psychic’s but apparently they have faith in me, or at least that’s what they want me to think. I’ve had several psychics approach me over the past few months in public places, normal places that I frequent often. My first encounter I was chased down in the mall parking lot. “Ma’am, ma’am,” he called out waving his hands in the air as I approached my car.
“I can see your aura, it’s very strong and good. You’re one of us. You can see the supernatural and have a sixth sense.”
“One of what?” I blindly shot back.
“A psychic, one of the chosen few,” he said handing me his card.
Well I certainly didn’t see that coming with my sixth sense. He went on to enlighten me that big things I’ve been waiting for would happen to me over the coming months and that I needed to tap into my clairvoyant power. I smirked, smiled and told him I’d contact him if his predictions came true. Such vague prophecies that could be manipulated to mean almost anything. Such as: would I have more time to write and finish my book? Is my business going to be more profitable? Would I finally take that trip to India, Nepal or Zimbabwe? The sky was the limit as my focus shifted from passing thoughts to his flimsy paper card. “Psychic readings by Shay. A little guide to Life’s secrets.” I turned it over to the fine print, “Fortune truly told,” as he specialized in “arts of angelic healing…” I smirked and tucked the card into the center compartment of my car.
A few weeks later I was picking out a turkey for the holidays at our local grocery store as a short rotund pink-faced woman approached making small talk. She must have seen that I was struggling with what type of turkey to purchase. Fresh or frozen, how many pounds, what brand and so forth. “Get the Butterball fresh one,” she suggested. “It’s the best.”
I grinned and thanked her for advice. I didn’t bother to tell her that I’m a vegetarian, when she beamed about the juiciness of the Butterball. The purchase was for my carnivore family whom would appreciate a large succulent bird. If she was a real mind-reader she would have known this without effort on my part.
She pulled a sturdy card from her purse, glowed and whispered, “I’m a psychic, call me for a reading.” She handed me the card and added, “read the back.”
I stood there in the refrigerated section reading her card as she bobbled down the aisle. “Clairvoyant, Life Coach, Tarot Cards and Face Readings. Specializing in love, marriage, career, health and family.” And turkeys, I mumbled returning to my dinner purchase of a twenty pound Butterball.
Over the next few days I somehow ended up with several psychic cards on the windshield of my car all promising to tell my past, future and present with guarantees to amaze me. Am I being targeted by mystics who want to show me the path wanting to turn me into a clairvoyant or life coach, whatever that means. Is there a sudden demand for life coaches? Are these ex-bankers and real estate agents looking to make money in a difficult economy? It all seems like a farce to me, but I was a bit intrigued by volume of cards I received over such a short time. I saved them just incase that BIG thing I’ve been needing to happen does with sudden enlightenment for Sierra.
At midnight on December 31st when the ball dropped and everyone hugged and kissed, I whispered to my husband, “13 is my lucky number. 2013 will be a good year for me.” Perhaps these psychics know something that I don’t or maybe my true belief as 13 being my number will bring many good things my way for the coming year. After all, we survived the end of the Mayan calendar and to many the end of the world, so anything else is a bonus.