New-Age-Center

By: Muriel Anderson


 

 

By Muriel Anderson

 

I am a single peri- menopausal woman searching for her soul mate. I need help, serious help.

 

I grew up in a household mainly consisting of women. I like to refer to it as the Sisterhood. This household had an monthly ritual. When I say ritual it conjures up all sorts of odd images, which could consist of people in a circle formation holding hands, chanting and wearing ceremonial head gear. Truth be known , the only head gear I witnessed was my sisters 3 oversized rollers on set atop her head every night, the rest of her hair was wrapped around tightly secured her head. The crest on her head reminded made her look like a giraffe with bumps. She slept like this every night for years. Straight hair was a definite priority. Nothing could stop this early 70s fashion maven. When I think back everyone was really obsessed about their hair and how they looked. Fashion was the end all be all, in this household. The ritual involved an intense page turning fervor throughout the monthly Cosmopolitan. I would gaze upon the cleavaged Goddess on the glossy cover in dismay. Was this the standard I had to achieve? I mean I believed I was a bespectacled gangly geek. I thought I was too tall, too dumb and let’s just call a spade a spade, ugly. To me it seemed so much easier to stay ugly. I tended toward choosing the path of least resistance. The sacrifices done in the name of beauty seemed to out weigh the returns in my opinion. The magazine had them mesmerized for what seemed like hours. Why?

And then it happened.

It was a cold afternoon in January. I was bored, and on the French provincial coffee table, the plastic Venusians’ Empress caught my eye. She called to me, that penetrating gaze through those thickly mascared covered eyes and coifed to perfection tresses. It must have taken hours for her to get that way. Made me consider what the original canvas looked like. Perhaps it was an opportunity for possible transformation? Now this had me curious. I precariously picked the pseudo journalistic attempt and placed it on my lap. I opened the page. It was an ad for perfume. And what I found was a photo of a woman in the arms of some more than likely gay male model with her head thrown back and face in sheer bliss. I quickly tossed the magazine and threw it on the floor. Christ. Does perfume really have that kind of power? Converting a clearly gay male over to heterosexuality? I suddenly felt a need for alcohol. I was 14. As I got up I noticed that something had fell out of the magazine, a small pink booklet titled Linda Goodman’s Sun Sign Guide for 1971. Sun signs? Astrology?

At the time my knowledge of Astrology was limited to reading those daily blurbs in the local newspaper. Silly advice that never really made too much sense and never seemed to be really relevant to my life. What held my interest was the actual sign symbols. I was a Scorpio. My symbol was an exoskeleton desert creepy crawler killer. Great. No wonder I didn’t have very many friends. Why did I have to be that one? I wanted to be the kingly lion, the pretty virgin holding the shafts of wheat even the centaur Archer, The twins... but nooo….I had to be nasty little black thing with a stinger. I went on to read the description of my Sun Sign. Scorpios, love sex, lots and lots of sex they lived and breathed sex. Last time I checked the local newspaper the last person who lived and breathed sex did 5 -10 in the pen. This was not welcomed news.

This was my first introduction to Astrology, although I consider myself a realist, I also was deeply introspective and desperately wanted to understand myself and others. Astrology was the first step on this path. The fact that it wasn’t acceptable in my circles, or even slightly understood only served to appease my individualistic rebellious Uranian heart.

 

To be continued…..

 

Muriel Anderson