I truly believe I’m going to die young.

I didn’t always think so, but two summers ago I was a tour leader on a teen tour—basically a mobile summer camp for teenagers. We drove by bus from New York to San Francisco, hitting parts of Canada and the Midwest and Midnorth along the way. About 50 rich, puberty-ridden 15- and 16-year-olds and us: 6 twenty-somethings looking for a last chance to discover America.

Cue Simon and Garfunkel.

Over the July 4th Holiday, we stayed a few days in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It was an interesting town. We got to eat in some nice places, see the Big House, go ice-skating.

It was also the site of the trip’s first laundry stop, a place called Mr. Stadium. For some reason or other, it was one of the most famous coin laundromats in America. They sell tee shirts. I bought one.

Towards the end of the laundry stop, a few of the kids discovered that one of the elderly ladies there could read palms. Word spread and 2 minutes later, 45 of the little bastards were crowded around this poor old woman, thrusting their claws palm-up in her face.

Finally, our tour director mercifully ordered the kids to disperse and get on the bus. As they filed out, I walked over and asked if she had time for one more. I had never believed in palm reading, but I figured this would be a free chance to try it out.

She picked up my right hand and turned it over, studying it with her eyes and own hands. She slowly ran her pointer finger over the crevices of my palm, weaving her way through.

She told me I would love someone very much. If you have children, she said, you will be very devoted to them.

Then she stopped and looked into my eyes.

Your lifeline splits, she said. Then trails off soon after.

What does this mean, I asked.

It means you will have an unfortunate life event: An accident, a sickness, some sort of adversity. But you will survive it. Only not for long after.

Cue DeVotchKa.

For two years now, I have been haunted by this old woman’s  prediction.

And I probably always will be.

I Probably Wouldn't Say This Unless We Were Postcoital, 5.0 out of 5 based on 1 rating

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