Humor
An Open Letter to the Ancient Astrologers Who Shattered My Identity
Where have you been all my life Ophiuchus?
“A resurfaced NASA blog has claimed there are actually 13 zodiac signs — not 12. The extra sign — known as Ophiuchus — is supposedly the horoscope for those born between 29 November and 17 December. As a constellation Ophiuchus is a snake bearer, and he is said to have been the first doctor. If Ophiuchus was in use as an official star sign, it would change the dates for horoscopes for the rest of the year. This means some people might find their birthday fell under a different sign.” — The London Mirror, 15 July 2020
Birthdates for the Thirteen Signs of the Zodiac
Aries — April 18 to May 13 Taurus — May 13 to June 21 Gemini — June 21 to July 20 Cancer — July 20 to August 10 Leo — August 10 to September 16 Virgo — September 16 to October 30 Libra — October 30 to November 23 Scorpio — November 23 to November 29 Ophiuchus — November 29 to December 17 Sagittarius — December 17 to January 20
Dear Astrologers of Ancient Babylon,
It has come to my attention that due to a grievous omission on your part, i.e., excluding the thirteenth star sign Ophiuchus aka “The Serpent Bearer” from the horoscope you passed down to Western Civilization, my identity is in total disarray. According to the complete 13-sign horoscope, I am a Gemini. Due to your arbitrary and cavalier adjustment, I have lived my entire life as a Cancer. Thanks for nothing, you arrogant pricks.
List of damages:
- When asked, “What’s your sign?” I had to answer, “Cancer the Crab,” and listen to the giggles and sympathetic noises. Nobody wants to be a Cancer or a crab. I had to worry that my answer might trigger the memory of a loved one who died of a deadly disease. “Feely crabby, are we?” isn’t even funny the first time. In the 1960s, some newspapers began to use the term “Moon Children” in their daily horoscope sections. It was a nice gesture, but we all saw that for the lipstick on a pig that it was. Nobody’s buying that Moon Child bullshit, not now, not ever.
- The sign of Cancer is associated with the stomach, uterus, and female breasts. Do you know what it’s like to discover this in front of a gaggle of other 11-year-old girls at a slumber party while reading aloud from Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs? The shame is still palpable.
- As a Cancer, I believed my character traits to be emotional, nurturing, sensitive, and insecure. I should have refused to pack my boyfriend’s lunch, wash his underwear, and read him bedtime stories. But because you duped me into believing, “nurturing is who I am,” I did it without complaint. I felt justified in flying off the handle, taking unwarranted offense, and being needy because that’s what Cancers do. It’s a feminist’s nightmare.
- Your misdirection regarding the compatibility of my sign with those of prospective suitors is criminal. As a Cancer, I was on the lookout for Taurus, Virgo, Scorpio, or Pisces mates. I avoided people whose signs were Aries or Libra. Not only are you responsible for every crummy date I’ve ever had, you very likely steered me away from everlasting marital bliss. Not nice, Star Boys. Not nice at all.
- Because of your negligence in omitting Ophiuchus from the horoscope, now that I find that I am a Gemini, I have to completely reprogram my personality, buy some Alexandrite jewelry (where am I supposed to find that?), and probably get a divorce. Too bad for me that ancient Babylonian astrologers don’t carry errors and omissions insurance. That payout would undoubtedly have helped get me an excellent attorney.
Signed,
Recovering Crab Woman
P.S. The heretofore undiagnosed bipolar disorder has been no picnic either.
©2020, Denise Shelton. All rights reserved.
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