Fortune hunting

I’m a fortune-teller junkie, to the point that it seems almost farcical. It started with a Magic 8 ball when I was 15: it predicted my fate with the words “Try again next time” glowing when I secretly asked if my clandestine date with a boy in Racks was pushing through. For some reason my mom found out (I suspect it was my contrabida yaya) and cock-blocked me. All for the better; I hear he is now an “import/export” dealer. Mother knows best.

However, my worldwide network of oracles know better. I have one in London, one in New York and one here in Manila. They have been reading me for years and could easily write my biography. They know how pathetic I am, as I ask over the years if the boy I had my eye on likes me. I will be 15 forever, one fortune-teller said to me.

The one in London just stares at me and goes into a trance and tells me what I have been doing for the last three months, including travels, significant purchases and not-so-significant others. It’s so crazy that it’s like she’s my travel agent and personal shopper in one. Then after she establishes how good she is she proceeds to tell me how I need to break up with some dude I’m seeing and proceeds to tell me he has two kids (yes!) and the daughter will hate me (possible) and even the industry he was in. She even timed when my deal-breaker moment will happen. Usually I just forget about it — until it does happen and I refer to my notes only to find out that she has indeed called it to the “T.”

This is why I write just about everything down in a Smythson diary: so I can remember their predictions. I have the memory of a goldfish’s egg. I swear, I have an encyclopedia set of these Smythson diaries filled with all my clairvoyant drama. It’s beyond Moleskine. Sometimes they happen right away (not in a self-fulfilling prophecy kind of thing, seriously), sometimes it takes years and then I refer to them like a lost tourist. My seer from New York predicts shit like this and it happens… three years later. This is not even general stuff; it’s very specific things like the kind of home I’ll be moving to and future frenemies. Everything is written down in an ambiguous, morose code that only I can understand because I’m paranoid like that.

Anyway, I referred to my Smythson seer diaries earlier this week and I was appalled at what I found. Not because of remembering that I had a reading every day when I was in London and was contemplating my “Eat, Pray, Love” phase. I even loved one prediction: “You will entertain in silver.”

It’s so random and fabulous.

What really bothered me was that I was always asking about boys and my pathetic past romantic conundrums. Down to sad questions like: “I just broke up with my ex-boyfriend, how do I make sure he doesn’t call me forever?” “What is the sign that will make me know he is the one?” (These were the glory days when I just dated up a storm only to realize I hate dating.) Or “What will he do to help me make up my mind?” Duh. This explains the police lineup of my past beaus.

Why for the last 10 years did I obsess over these nonsense people? The one I actually ended up with (to have and to hold) was not even a controversial topic in my readings, as I was happy. When I’m happy the oracles on my speed dial take a break.

I’m not saying I’ve been a loser all those years. I just acted like one. There is no doubt that my clairvoyant friends are gifted. What bothered me was why I was so boy crazy. I’ve had a great career starting at the age of 18. I was blessed with doing great endorsements that paid for my gift of getting to travel the world and have homes to decorate. I have great parents who didn’t give me up for adoption despite everything. I have a great boss and colleagues who set me straight every week. I have wonderful friends who know the importance of never saving a great outfit for a special occasion. Most of all, I’m glad there is Photoshop.

So it disgusted me that, according to Smythson, I was all about boys, boys, boys.

I have a man now and this is why I want to slap myself. I thought that despite having all these great things around me, I felt that only a reciprocated crush validated my existence. I was always looking for romance, like a Harlequin junkie, to keep my loins warm (a common phrase in the books) and my life perfect.

I am going through one of those “30s” crises. What to do now? I see some of my friends who are happy homemakers and while I’m ecstatic for them I can’t really imagine buying a baby buggy (is that what you call them?). My dogs are my little angels and I didn’t have to carry them in my belly for nine months. They did not give me stretch marks. Yes, I’m shallow. Deal with it.

My fiancé is the most supportive man. He understands my need for fabulosity. He was there when I needed a brain break and basically encouraged me to sign up for a writing course that gave me more confidence to write again. He walks with me for an hour every day as I explain my new projects and gives me sage advice despite being tired from being in the office for 10 hours.

I’ll never be that spreadshit (pun totally intended), and my life and vocation is all about having a MacBook Pro and some crayons. I helped write some essays for HBS and Stanford applications for some friends and all my bullcrap got them in. It’s really one of my gifts. As they say in The Talented Mr. Ripley, everyone needs to have a talent. Does that mean I can really go take those MBA programs? Hell, no; I’m no Elle Woods. 

In Parsons, my counselor told me that I was creator. I wasn’t meant to do teamwork or work under someone. That was kind of mean. However, I do find my most gratifying projects are those that I do by myself like writing and creating my brand Loungeri Lux, which has been in a Douglas Coupland coma for four years now.

I think confidence is not found in getting the boy to like you. That’s just plain desperate. Confidence is found in what you do in your life. Being true to your vocation. Look at Josie Natori: she was really more Madison Avenue, despite nine years on Wall Street.

“The greatest relationship is the one you will have with yourself,” said Diane Von Furstenberg to a terribly confused Whitney Port on MTV’s The City. DVF, by the way, is a major player in my vision board along with Tory Burch. It’s true though, how could you even vie for the attention of anyone if you find yourself vacant? Like every good thing, it’s also easy to go too far. The word “megalomaniac” comes to mind; to the less talented ones, just “narcissist.”

It makes you confident because getting there is never easy. There is a sense of accomplishment. Remember that feeling of having stars on your report card in pre-school? Imagine living life feeling that way.

I’m actually wary of the easy way. It seems like something is going to just stomp on it, like in those formulaic romantic comedies. But then you just have to do that motivational prayer of living your dreams and not losing yourself. What’s more important is the things you learn along the way.

With this confidence badge in your pocket, you don’t only get the boy. You also get to fall in love with yourself.