On my fifteenth birthday, January 16, 1977, I slogged through a New York City rainstorm of hurricane proportions to buy the Sunday paper.
Actually, several newspapers, including those from Chicago and Houston. I didn’t get the California papers. If I’d been born at the same moment on the West Coast, with the three-hour time difference, I’d have been born yesterday. Plus, the rain had already reduced the California paper to papier-mâché.
I’m a Capricorn, the sign represented by a goat with a fish’s tail. Altogether, five horoscopes told me these things:
—I would suffer a disaster that would lead to a major discovery about myself. Good, with reservations.
—I would make a career move. We-ell.
—I would have an opportunity to see more of the country. Um, good.
—I would find romance. Good, but at the time, I felt I had romance. I decided this meant my interest would be reciprocated.
—I would learn that some kinds of long-term relationships are irreplaceable. My God. My mom. Or my dad? Maybe just a grandparent.
Just?