Mirror, mirror on the wall.

The one where I learn that I am cursed.

Hello Midlifers,

Earlier this fall, I stretched a week-long getaway to Maine to include PTO on the Friday before, which felt super luxurious after a hectic summer at work. I could have spent the day relaxing, but I am a busybody and like activity (but am not particularly amazing at planning).

“I’m either gonna get my hair cut or see a psychic,” I told my daughter when we FaceTimed that morning. “Depends who I can get in with at the last minute.”

In the end, my hair guy was booked so I called my local psychic, who has a storefront around the corner from me on Main Street, and made an appointment for the early afternoon.

My two girls and I had an impromptu mini card reading with this particular psychic the summer before, which we booked while waiting to get into the bougie eatery near us for brunch on my birthday. The place is always mobbed by hordes of young people drinking champagne and the wait is always 45 minutes.

As we sat on a bench on Main Street and waited, we noticed the psychic’s neon “Psychic” sign nearby and decided to call and see if we could get spots for later that day after the beach. We did our readings separately with the others waiting outside on the sidewalk and when we compared notes later, it seemed we would all be in relationships with “the one” by November. And while none of that happened for any of us, she did tell me one thing that weirdly came true, so I didn’t completely discount her as a hack.

Dario Garofalo for The New York Times

When I went back this year to see her in September, my psychic had no recollection of our session the summer before. She comes off as young with bleached blonde hair, a thick Eastern European accent and says, “My dear,” a lot like a gypsy fortune teller in an old timey movie. We sat kind of side-by-side in front of a small table where she started laying out cards and telling me things that psychics always kind of tell me — about money, my writing, romance. She started telling me I still needed to do work on myself and I was like, “Girl, I’ve been single forever and all I do is work on myself.” So then she switched tactics.

“My dear, I am sorry to say, that you are cursed,” she said, adding she saw a lot of darkness and a mounting deep depression. Luckily, she could help me remove the curse using meditations and crystals during weekly sessions that would cost me $250. She explained she would research the curse and send me home with some incense to do my own work. “I can help lift all that negativity,” she told me.

I thanked the psychic very much for the offer and assured her I did not feel like I was in a dark place or like depression was something to worry about. But to myself, I thought that I mostly wanted her to tell me that my book was going to be wildly successful some day and that I’d finally meet a great romantic partner and live happily ever after.

Over the years, I’ve done Tarot card readings with lots of different psychics, mostly around my birthday in August. Actually, the first time I went to one was on my 40^th birthday after a fairly disastrous party the night before that ended in the local emergency room. My sister in law and I had gone to get ice cream and as we walked around eating our cones we saw a sign for a psychic out on the sidewalk and decided to go upstairs and see if we could get our fortunes told.

At that point in my life, I was in a pretty emotional place and I think needed to know that everything was going to be okay. I was scared and unsure about my future and if a deck of cards could help assuage my fears then I considered that $75 well spent. For some reason, the reading really moved me and I came away feeling strangely empowered even thought she didn’t really say anything substantial. She had weirdly asked if I was a writer and had asked if my sister in law was a teacher (yes to both), so that seemed to be a sign that she had some kind of magical powers. I went back to my life but carried some of the things she said with me and started making Tarot card readings an annual birthday thing.

What would the upcoming year bring? What was coming down the pike? Love? Happiness? Success? Peace? I certainly didn’t want someone to tell me I’d been cursed.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to know what was coming next. Would I get married? Would I have a baby? Or another? Or another? Would it all work out? What would the future bring?

I remember when the three oldest kids were small and their father was out for the night, I’d rush through feeding them their fish sticks dinner and washing all their hair as they stood huddled together in the big shower in my bathroom. I’d sit on the toilet seat and towel each one off and slick their wet hair down with a comb and then slather their little arms and legs with thick lotion before putting on their pjs. I’d watch them stand in front of the sink in the upstairs bathroom and brush their teeth and help the youngest, massaging her tiny teeth with her Minnie Mouse toothbrush. We’d all pile on my eldest’s small bed with a stack of picture books and I’d be surrounded by all those small bodies, inhaling their minty breath as they argued about what to read next and laughing at the pages we always got a kick out of. The moose falling over the couch while trying to get another muffin. Lily showing up wearing a crazy costume and scaring her friends Chester and Wilson. Those bits never got old.

After they were all tucked into their beds, I’d head downstairs and finally pour my one glass of wine and if it was warm, I’d take it outside on the deck and light a cigarette and look out into the darkness. Our house had a deep backyard that ended in trees bordering a neighbor’s large property with a pond close by. I’d sit outside on the steps looking out into the night and listen to the bullfrog croak and wonder what the future held. Fireflies blipped across the deep void of the yard as I thought about my life and how I’d landed on those porch steps, in my early 30s, with all those kids sleeping inside the house. I had so many questions about what life would bring and was anxious for it all to be made clear.  I’d blow smoke out into the night and take a big sip of Chardonnay and will the Universe to hurry up and make it all happen.

I still think about those warm summer nights from time to time. How I desperately needed answers to all my questions about what life had in store for me. But now I wonder how much of it I would have really wanted to know.

I think the biggest difference between that girl sitting on the wooden steps of her back deck smoking a cigarette and the woman that I am today is that that long ago version of myself still thought she could control her narrative. She was still trying to wrestle everyone and everything to fit into the life she had carefully scripted in her head.

Now I know that is a terrible way to try to go through life. I can put all the things out into the universe but what happens from there is not up to me. And now that I’m way closer to 60 than 30, would I even want to know what lays ahead? I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’d rather have my therapist tell me when she sees me heading toward some potholes and try to recalibrate my thinking and actions to avoid landing in that emotional ditch ass over elbow.

Having a psychic tell me I am cursed is great content. When I walked back out onto the sidewalk that day, that was my initial thought. I couldn’t wait to tell somebody about it. But it’s certainly not going to be the story I tell myself. I don’t know what my future holds, but it doesn’t “give” dark. It feels light. And happy. And I can’t wait to see what it will look like. When the time comes.

sunday shares: read + watch + cook + buy

·       My new hair toy. For my birthday in August, the kids told me they were joining forces to buy me a bracelet I kind of wanted. But then we kept forgetting to look at my choices and order one. Flash forward to early November when the girls and I walked into Costco and saw the Dyson Air Wrap on super sale. “Do you want that instead?” the oldest asked. I have to say it was the most excited I’ve been in a while to bring it home. It’s been super fun to play with but I’m still struggling with how to get the pretty waves I make to stay in my hair longer than 20 minutes. Any ideas?

·       Must-see TV. My oldest daughter stayed with me for most of November and we watched a bunch of shows together. That included the first available episodes of The Buccaneers, a stylized retelling of the unfinished Edith Wharton novel about a bunch of young New York women looking for husbands in early 20^th century England. It definitely gives Apple’s Dickinson vibes. We also BLASTED through the first four episodes of The Crown. Sad and good, though I am still not buying hunky Dominic West as Prince Charles. Way too sexy. We’re also loving this season’s Great British Baking Show, that’s coming down to the finale this week, I think. The show is just consistently delightful and what is not to love about all of the contestants rooting for each other?

·       A show for everyone. Looking for something everyone can watch when they’re home for the holidays? If your family is like mine, we can never agree on anything to watch. But my girls and I binged a season of Alone over Thanksgiving break that even my 20yo son sat down to watch with us. It’s a reality show with like 11 seasons that drops 10 contestants in a remote part of the world (we watched season 5 in Mongolia) with limited supplies, and pretty much see who lasts the longest. It’s strangely compelling television.

See you next Sunday! xoAmy