Oh please! I don’t need to be on a plane to have my fortune and my destiny and all my life’s hopes and dreams told to me. I don’t need a palm reader. I don’t need a hypnotist or a charlatan or even the real thing. I’ve got older parents!
Nag nag nag. Nag nag nag. My ‘rents fret and worry and tell me I’m not ready for college and we have to go to Staples and have you seen the new pajama bottoms at Bed Bath? Kohls today. Gap tomorrow. Anxiety every day.
Sometimes I call my mother “a big ball of anxiety.”
I think it makes her more anxious.
Part of her nervousness is because we don’t have all the supplies–all the new shirts and bras and slippers necessary to survive the twenty-first century Animal House.
In fact, I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did watching the season finale of Breaking Bad. Must have been therapeutic.
Dear palm reader,
Can I borrow your crazy hat/scarf/whatever you call it? May I borrow your magic eight ball? Pass the large majestic eyes, would you please?
I’ve got a reading for you: