The Horrors of Horoscopes: Please don’t make me marry a set of scales


By Rebecca MacKay

It has come to my recent attention that superstition has infected our society like a malevolent virus. Again.

Let me clarify. By superstition, I don’t just mean black cats, broken mirrors, and ladders, but more ‘I was born in August so I’m going to find my husband in March.’ Yes, I am talking of horoscopes.

Horoscopes. Just run the word around in your mouth; it’s so rounded and disgusting.  We see the word on bubble-gum pink pages in magazines with ‘cute’ pictures of animals and funny symbols telling us that our dreams will come true TOMORROW. Hoorah!

It’s not all bad. In the Middle Ages, they used star-gazing to predict when crops would grow, or if a storm was brewing, or if someone was going to die of the Black Death; these were necessary inquiries essential to living. The Romans did it with dead fish and that worked out pretty well too.

But oh, how the Modern Age has defiled such an ancient practice. No longer is this art used for noble causes. I realise what a shame it is that we need a balding man with glasses to tell us where to find a husband. Are we, as independent women, unable to attract our own men? Have we fallen so far that men are repulsed by us? WHERE ARE OUR WOMANLY WILES?

We have been taken as slaves, enticed by the ability to see into the future and the hope that maybe, just maybe, all of our dreams will come true. We don’t see that it’s all lies and complete rubbish, and worse, that there’s the possibility that Hugh Jackman won’t see you in Tesco’s and instigate an immediate marriage. Humans hear what they want to hear and see what they want to see; horoscopes take advantage of this. Tarot cards, fortune tellers and horoscopes all use this fault to make money and weirdly, women are the most susceptible.

Ask yourself this: How many successful marriages have you come across that were brought about by horoscopes? I’m fairly certain that the Take-a-Break horoscope section didn’t lead you to the love of your life.

I don’t CARE whether Orion’s Belt is lined up with the edge of Neptune; this does not mean that my future partner is going to magically appear before me. All I ask is that someone would please explain to me why the precise location of Sirius at birth dictates my whole personality.

This is ridiculous. Come on, women. Take ahold of your own destiny. You don’t need a small, fat Derek Acorah-type man to dictate vaguely when you’ll meet your husband. This is what the Suffragettes fought for. Break free!

Photography: vawa_92 on Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0).

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