Stars Are Just Like Us. Except When They're Not.

I'm a Libra. This is neither here nor over there, but the stars tell me that this is my astrological sign. Actually some person decided that the stars tell me that Libra is my sign of the Zodiac, but I like to pretend burning pieces of mass actually whisper in people's ears. The fact is I have no idea if what I wrote is true because the only thing I know about signs is that I'm a Libra and I'm pretty sure that "Astrological Signs" was the full name of the Jetsons' dog.

Since I really like knowing things so I have something to awkwardly talk about at parties, I decided to look up the definition of Libra on the trusted site Astrology-Online.com. I'm saying it's trusted because it is designed and maintained by one Michael Thiessen and if you can't trust a strong name like Michael Thiessen then there is no hope for any of us in this cruel world of back taxes and misplaced banana peels. To be fair I didn't really read most of it since they used a lot of fancy pants words that I didn't have time to look up like "Avant Garde", "espouse" and "kindness", but one line stuck out at me.

"Librans too are among the most civilized of the twelve zodiacal characters and are often good looking."

TAKE THAT EX-GIRLFRIENDS. THE INTERNET THINKS I'M SEXY.

After I looked at my strikingly good looking self in my handy Zodiac mirror for 21 minutes, I remembered that the Libra symbol was a balance. I think that describes me pretty well. I tend to not get really high or really low. The last time I remember losing my mind over something was in 1994 when the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup and I sprinted around my house whooping and screaming about various random hockey references that my parents didn't understand.

"MA! Do you know how big this is?!?! The Rangers haven't won a championship in 54 years!"
"Rahul, you're 14. Why is this a big deal? You weren't even alive."
"YOU NEVER LIKED ME ANYWAY. I HATE YOU."

Teenage Schizophrenia. A World Conundrum.

As I've gotten older I guess I've gotten more Librafied. New word alert. Just copyrighted it. Retroactive to two sentences ago. I rarely get frustrated at things that happen around me. I'm ok if a car blocks the intersection causing me to miss a light. Probably should have left home earlier. I'm fine when my internet goes out in the middle of a blog post. I've learned to deal with the CW pre-empting Gossip Girl after I had been planning on watching the Upper East Side Elite scheme their way to a thoroughly enjoyable one hour of unrealistic teenage trash drama all weekend.

While all those things do not bother me there is one thing that will bother me until the end of time. Sure the end of time is very narcissistic of me since I'm saying I will be around when time does officially once and for all stop, but that is not the point. (Aside - By the way, what if time just stopped? Tonight at 11:49 pm the clocks stopped moving. Would we have complete anarchy? What if Prince immediately releases a song called "11:49"? He would be absolutely correct if he said, "Tonight I'm gonna party like it's 11:49" because IT IS 11:49. ALL THE TIME. How would we send Facebook invites to (insert my friend's crappy band's CD release party here)? Mind? Blown.) Regardless, no matter how balanced I am I will continually get frustrated at this scenario.

When people don't have their club card ready to be swiped.

We've all seen these people. They go up to the register and have a basketful of necessities at the CVS, Walgreens, Supermarket, Adult Video store and they patiently sit there while the nice cashier rings up their items. After 5 minutes of ringing up the cashier looks at the customer and says, "Do you have a club card?" At this point you see a look of sheer bewilderment on these people’s faces while their head starts spinning “Wait, did I sign up for a club card? Should I sign up for one? If I say no will she try to make me get one? I mean I really only come here twice a year for various sundries. I don’t NEED to get one. Wait, I think I did get one back in Aught 5. Oh yes yes.” Then they turn the cashier tell them they have a club card and immediately spend the next 2 minutes rifling through their personal belongings for a laminated coupon card that will take them to the land of rainbows and 5 cents off Crest. Let me ask a question.

What are you doing?

Is it a surprise that the cashier would ask for the card? Have you not been shopping since I don’t know, the beginning of life? They always ask. That little card should be out and ready to go and instead you are wasting everyone’s time in line that just wants to buy a fake plant to impress women when they come to your apartment because I guess, you’re surprised that this stranger that works at CVS has not memorized your face and card number from never seeing you before. “Oh yes, Mrs. Johnson. Wonderful to finally see you for the first time. Oh, I know your card number. It’s right here not in my brain. 1671432alphasigmathankstimewastingmagoo.”

In the interest of full disclosure my mom continually does this while I violently shake my head Linda Blair style. I tell her that it’s annoying, but she doesn’t care since she would randomly look at babies at the store and tell me to make one. Awesome.

This whole being a Libra thing should get me through this tough time in my life while at the CVS, but for some reason it doesn’t. One day I’ll figure out how to make this frustration go away. It probably won’t be today or tomorrow or 11:49pm, but it will happen.

At least I have my Zodiac handsomeness.