Addicted to Psychics

One of my most brilliant, intellectual friends Emily talks about “alternative medicine” with the same matter-of-factness as picking up a prescription from CVS. So when she recommended a psychic, I jumped at it. (And hey, if you think it’s a scam, don’t pay for it.)

The psychic had a cool website, looked slightly older than me, and wore a loose-fitting striped t-shirt. There was something ‘I don’t need to explain myself—you either get it or you don’t’ about her.

She told me to go for a walk and look for a flower whenever I feel low—one flower. “You love specificity. Focus on detail,” she said. “There’s a strong center of creativity in your lower stomach that wants to come up.” She was right—I had been feeling creative acid reflux.

And then she told me about an older couple—my dad’s parents—hovering beside me. They’re always with me—even in a 2 am Uber ride as I beg the driver to ease up on the brakes.

“Notice pennies,” she said. “In pivotal moments, you might find pennies around you. They're from him,” referring to my dad’s late father Kal who I never met but feel like I know.

Lo and behold, my first night sleeping in a new apartment after graduating college—a penny. Sitting alone on my roommate’s desk. Weird, but not weird enough to be sure.

But then: a penny dropped out of my purse. A couple exclaimed, “A lucky penny!” as they passed me. A woman wearing a cowboy hat with the words "lucky penny" burnt into it.

I opened up an LLC and named my production company Lucky Penny Productions; partly as tribute, partly hoping my ancestors would throw me an extra boost when I needed it.

And they did. Coincidences multiplied. I was elated, especially because my dad gets these all the time—even crazier ones. He's the highest vibrational person I know. Sometimes it seems like he could float up to the ceiling. Or if I snuck into his office, there’d be a beam of light streaming from the clouds to his pen. It doesn’t matter that he’s writing jokes about Raisinettes — he’s got a high-clearance card to whatever idea factory exists out there.

Creative people, particularly the self-made, exist on this higher spiritual plane. The universe cracks open for them, as they soar on talent alone — guided only by instinct and a series of perfect decisions. They've found their “path” and devour life like a juicy pomelo.

My fixation on this path has become a bit of a tick. Sometimes, I feel like I’m gripping my life’s compass so hard it almost shatters. Should I have gone to that party? Should I have said something else during that meeting? Am I supposed to move to Mexico City for some reason?

Uncertainties mount—have I veered off course? Like I sidestepped my "right path" and doomed myself to a lesser life, one potentially fated for tragedy. People die slipping in the shower. What kind of plan is that? If I can miss the bus, surely the universe can miss me.