A proud woman of science, I’ve never been one to indulge in New Age fads. When my friends splurge on tarot readings and giant floor crystals, I am the first to turn my nose up at the idea. To me, investing in the mystical is money down the drain, much like playing the lottery or paying for premium dating apps.
Recently, however, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind when friends recommend activities to me. A real “say yes to life” philosophy. Maybe it’s post-pandemic itchiness to engage with the world, or maybe I’m just getting soft as I age, but whatever the reason, last week I felt compelled to book an appointment with Psychic Readings with Lydia, the neighborhood medium who offers every New Age service under the sun.
I decided to start small with a simple $10 palm reading—I figured, better to ease my way in, then if I happened to click with Lydia, I could always tack on a chakra alignment or sound bath a la carte. What a huge disappointment, therefore, when I went in trying to open myself up to this new experience, and instead left with a diagnosis for dermatitis.
After I crossed the threshold of her beaded curtain, Lydia asked me to take a seat and hold out my palm. When I did, she recoiled immediately from the touch of my hand. Not an ideal start.
“What is this?” she demanded. “You feel like an iguana.”
I assured Lydia that I knew my hand was indeed dry. I promised to moisturize when I got home. For now, though, I was curious about my lifeline, my heart line, any elements of fortune she might be able to glean from my very palm. I wanted to know if life would lead me toward prosperity, happiness, children. Maybe I wouldn’t take her assessment as gospel outright, but I was curious nonetheless. Alas, Lydia had a one-track mind.
“Not just dry,” she pressed on. “You need prescription medication to address this. This is bad.”
My ego already bruised, I tried to save face by assuring Lydia I would schedule a doctor’s appointment as soon as I got home. I was, after all, a proud woman of science. I insisted that medical doctors are usually my preferred healers. I defer to scientific expertise. I love posting CDC guidelines. I’m one of those people! But Lydia simply threw me a skeptical glance and reminded me that she does not have a medical degree, and no tincture in her shop would fare against my severe, chronic skin condition. It was clear that Lydia regarded me in a less than flattering light. This mystic woman thought I was simply too mystical.
Given that my appointment fee was nonrefundable, I asked Lydia to simply perform the reading and set aside her opinions on my dry, scaly skin. Before proceeding, she donned a pair of latex gloves (humiliating), then obliged.
“I cannot see your lifeline,” she said, visibly repulsed. “This rash is too patchy.” So either I’m going to die tomorrow, or palm reading is, perhaps, a flawed system.
