It’s ten years ago. I’m sitting on one of those tiny Manhattan-apartment-sized love seats because the charming West Village studio I’m in can’t fit a real sofa. There is an equally petite Manhattan-apartment-sized dog listening in on my Saturn Return astrology reading, a pug perhaps?
Sherene Schostak (Saturn Sisters, Project 40, Elle UK) is helping me understand the cosmic rite of passage I’m currently limping through and what it means specifically for someone with Saturn in Leo. She is telling me many important things but the only one I hear is: “You won’t get married until 2018. And when you do, it won’t be a traditional arrangement.”
This news, if you will, goes in one ear and pours out the other into a puddle of incredulousness flooding her living room floor. What the what?! I mean sure, I don’t want to be traditional or boring, but seriously chica? It’s like you’re not even taking into account the reality in which I live – I’ve been in a serious relationship for five years. FIVE YEARS! We have a dog and three cats plus a car and I totally know his parents really well (ish). Like holiday well, ya know? We go camping and we cook together. Obviously I’ll be married before 2018. When the hell is 2018 anyway?
It’s 2006. I’m at an age when “forty” is so far off in the future I can’t fathom its existence in any real way. I can’t even do the math that would form the conclusion in my brain that I will in fact be four decades old in 2018.
So I do what any self-respecting independent know-it-all 28 year old would do: I immediately dismiss this prediction. “Pfftt…” I block this encounter from my reality. I go back to life as I know it (read : angry, miserable, stressed, constantly fighting, infatuated, “in love”, so… very… confused).
Fast forward. Of course I never get married. Of course I grow up and leave and move on and find happiness, success and peace on my own. In the blink of an eye we’re halfway through 2016. I have no recollection of this conversation ever having occurred. I think about it… never.
It’s three months ago. I’m sitting on a chair at a desk in a miniature East Village one-bedroom, where I have sat many times before, because I need someone I trust to tell me I’m on the right track. I am desperate to get un-stuck. I am desperate to understand why my life stagnated and how to kick it back into gear. I am also desperate to tell a man I have fallen in love with exactly how much I adore him.
Jenny Lynch (Astrologer, no relation) is telling me many important things but the only one I hear is: “Tell him if you want to, but it’s not him. You won’t be lucky in love until 2018. That’s when you’ll get married.” In an instant I remember: Holy shit. That’s exactly what Sherene said to me a million years ago.
Blinders securely fastened, I tell him anyway. I’m so sure I’m right, but I’m wrong. He is shocked; never saw it coming; thinks I’m great, but… no. I am shocked that he is shocked and for a little while I mourn yet another failed attempt at love.
It’s today. I’m ready to get back on my horse. I make a decision that is difficultly empowering, one I can’t believe I’m making: I will believe them. I believe them. They are correct, not me. I am not responsible for finding him. Regardless of what I do, or do not do, he will be here pretty soon.
Relief envelops me. This decision assuages me of the fear and the stress of figuring it all out by myself. I don’t worry about the sun rising and now I no longer have to worry that I’ll be alone for the rest of my days. Turns out I don’t have much time left on this solo adventure.
According to the stars, 2017 will be the last year of life as I know it.