I'll Take My Future on Wheat

Beyonce Knowles shares my birthday. So does Mitzi Gaynor. If the stars are correct, the three of us should take a break today from being bootylicious and washing various men out of our hair. It’s time for us to do something nice for others...or submerge a pumpernickel. Our Murfreesboro Daily News Journal horoscope for Sunday, September 11 says:

VIRGO: Cast a little bread upon the waters today and you’ll receive a baker’s dozen in return when you need it. People you treat generously at this time will later respond liberally with you.

So....is a “little bread” a pinch of sourdough, or a literal “little bread”? A muffin? A ‘Nilla wafer? I’ve never dunked bread in water. I don’t even dunk Oreos in milk. I prefer my complex carbs high and dry. But if destiny commands it....

For the last consecutive three days, my grandparents have been delivering my Dallas Morning News horoscope via the telephone. Instead of “psychic friends,” I have psychic immediate family. As far as I know, Grandmother and Granddad have never been regular zodiac followers. Then again, they’re lifelong crossword puzzle devotees, and horoscopes usually appear in the same section, don’t they? Maybe Granddad was contemplating a three-letter word for “fruit sampler” when his attention wandered to the star signs.

Yesterday’s Dallas Morning News suggested that I “wait until the dust settles before making any big decisions.”

“But,” Granddad added, “don’t wait too long.”

My grandmother is also a Virgo, so this advice could be meant for her. It might even be a message for Beyonce or Mitzi (or Amy or Mary). Perhaps Beyonce just had a squabble with Jay-Z, and she’s debating whether or not to pack her Prada bags. Wait until the dust settles, Beyonce, or get a second opinion.

“Horoscopes are funny,” Granddad said, after giving me the latest starcast. “They’re so vague and optimistic. You’ll never get a horoscope that says, ‘Tomorrow you meet your doom.’”

True that. Horoscope writing must be an exercise in getting specific while speaking in generalities and offering direction while spinning readers right ‘round. What bread? What waters? Does that baker’s dozen come with powdered sugar?

Why, Dionne Warwick, why is it all so hazy?

Since Katrina, much of life feels hazy....nonspecific. Follow the stars; follow my heart; follow Granddad’s advice. It’s all experimental. Ultimately, my hands aren’t on the wheel. As someone who likes to grip the wheel until my knuckles fall off, this is a rather uncomfortable realization.

I didn’t check my horoscope in the NYT this morning, but I did locate this article about self-experimentation:

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/11/magazine/11FREAK.html

(I, too, find it disconcerting that the word “freak” is capitalized in the html address, but this is a reference to the book Freakonomics, not to the article’s writer or readers).

In summary: a psychology professor at UC Berkeley is using himself as a lab rat to test hypothesis on weight control. He caught onto the idea of self-experimentation while in graduate school. As the article says,

“If you knew Roberts 25 years ago, you might remember him as a man with problems. He had acne, and most days he woke up too early, which left him exhausted. He wasn't depressed, but he wasn't always in the best of moods. Most troubling to Roberts, he was overweight: at 5-foot-11, he weighed 200 pounds.”

Time to test a few theories, Roberts thought.

I won’t details his methods here, I’ll only reveal that they worked.

“When you encounter Seth Roberts today, he is a clear-skinned, well-rested, entirely affable man who weighs about 160 pounds and looks 10 years younger than his age.”

Surprised? Neither am I. If Roberts’ experiment had failed, I doubt he’d be profiled in this article. He probably wouldn’t send class notes to his alma mater, either.

That’s the nature of experiments, though –- sometimes they produce clear-skinned success stories; sometimes they lead to more nights of crying over the Clearasil tube. And there’s always a variable or two that can’t be predicted. Like, er, a hurricane.

I still don’t know where I’m going from here. I have an offer of readmission from the University of Chicago, but the program’s a one-year Master’s, not a Ph.D., and it packs a heavy financial wallop. My Tulane advisor is setting up at the University of Virginia, so I may follow her there. But will I succeed in research at UVA? Who knows. I might be able to whine my way back into Highlights....postpone school for another year? Forever?

Wherever I go, it’ll be an experiment. Might turn into an oozing, green mess...or maybe I’ll end up “a clear-skinned, well-rested, entirely affable woman.” I don’t know if the stars are smiling on me or on Beyonce. All I can do is take a deep breath, cast my bread, and hope it’s a zesty focaccia.

(PS: The three-letter fruit sampler: EVE)