Intuition. The right of every one of us who were born with ovaries. As integral as the mammary gland. Women’s intuition. Powerful mojo.
Except I don’t have any.
I’m not sure why I did not get my rightful allocation. Did I miss a day somewhere? Did I fail to get the memo about the change of venue for distribution? Who got mine and where do I go to pry it from their greedy hands?
If I get a compulsion to buy lottery tickets or invest in the stock market, that is the time to hide your cash in your mattress. Calling up the friend in a panic because I have just had a psychic flash of their death in a fiery car crash ensures that they are at Starbucks contentedly sipping a latte. (And no, my intuition is not simply reversed – psychic flashes of friends sipping lattes means that in reality they are scrubbing toilets, or having their pets spayed – it varies.)
It seems so unfair. I don’t get hunches. Or when I do they have about as much bearing on reality as “Sex in the City” does. I can’t follow my gut –all that does is bring me to the nearest McDonald’s drive through.
A man I dated once told me that people don’t listen to what the universe is telling them, and that frustration, dead-end roads and failed ventures are simply a disregard to the clues the cosmos was putting in their path.
Well, I grabbed onto that philosophy, I can tell you. I am nothing if not a good listener. Obviously my dysfunctional intuition was a matter of inattention to the whispered directions the universe was giving me to navigate with, and much like the idiot deciding the “BRIDGE OUT – TURN AROUND” sign was really meant for other people, my blatant dismissal of the communications being sent my way was where intuitive disaster was being courted.
Until I thought about it a little harder. Many of the things I’ve accomplished in my life – the things I’m most proud of – took serious determination. College was long and grueling – finishing through to a master’s degree took eight years, three majors, four colleges, seven jobs, and $15k in loans. Not exactly the most obstacle free of routes, you might say. Conceiving my son took two years of fertility management. Not quite what nature intended. And the move to Europe – one of the best adventures of my life – was six continuous months of every single thing that needed to happen going wrong the first time. It was the relocation equivalent of running the gauntlet.
So, listening to the universe better isn’t the answer either, because intuition or no, I’m not about to let every obstacle I encounter force a direction change.
I’ll simply try my best to accept my limitations, acknowledging that I do not have the psychic magnetic north that many of my sisters-in-estrogen appear to unquestioningly have. I will continue to navigate the world minus this sense, and hope that people who love me think no less of me.
At least I have a kick-ass sense of direction. So I may not be able to see where we’re going ahead of time, but we damn well won’t get lost.