When I had entered the past lives workshop at our local holistic arts fair, I made every attempt to sit in the back of the room, unnoticed. Of course, the fates conspired and this tactic did not work. A small, kind-looking woman with an unplaceable accent urged me to move up closer to the front, as there were plenty of seats. This was, of course, the psychic I was meant to listen to for the next hour.
My chest is constricted and my eyes continue to dart to the numbers in the corner of the screen, and I mentally count down the minutes until it is time to try my very first angel card reading. In pure Allie fashion, I’ve managed to blow this epically out of proportion.
I imagine this is what the line to a Van Halen concert might have looked like in their heyday, I thought to myself as I stood in the enormous queue in front of Grace Cathedral. I’m certain it was half a mile long, at least. It could have been even longer, had we all been orderly, and not scattered in disorganized clumps around the courtyard.
The panic began to seep in a full 24 hours before. My primary concern? What the hell to wear to my first Kundalini yoga class. After consulting my partner-in-crime and supporter of my inquisitive nature (read: Google), I determined, with near 100 percent certainty, that I had nothing that could be deemed even remotely appropriate.
As I walked the cracked sidewalks of the small main street downtown, I wondered if everyone could tell where I was headed. Then I wondered why I cared so much. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going—I had only visited this metaphysical shop once before, two or three years ago, with my mother. Reluctantly. I took no interest in it then, being that myself (and my ego) were in full-blown skeptic mode at the time. Somehow though, my feet remembered the steps to shop, and before I knew it, I was staring down the same friendly Dutch doors that I had begrudgingly entered once before.