Nancy Drawn
What’s in the box, what’s in the box?
August 2nd to August 15th, 2022
There’s nothing quite like the genres of horror and mystery to coax a viewer’s inflated sense of self out of hiding. Shrieking, Run!!! or Her nephew did it!!! are futile attempts to rescue a character from their fate, and a clear announcement to people in your vicinity that if you were in the impossible situation, you’d know exactly what to do.
You are a bit one sided in this regard, Virgo. You exude cockiness and bravado whilst watching a mystery unfold—whether that be through a novel or television or film (yes, the cosmos call them films). Naturally, you have the boring tendency to assume that your absence is the only reason a mystery isn’t being hastily solved.
However, when it comes to horror, your self knowledge is more acute (I know I have never acknowledged your blips of self awareness, so if you’re wondering if this is a mistake, this time it isn’t—but in the future it could be).
On more than a dozen occasions, from my chaise lounge in the skies, I’ve heard you proclaim that you’d be the first to die in any scary movie. You freeze when you’re scared, but you’re also scared of everything. A murderer could approach you with a pet cat and you’d curl up on the ground, welcoming death and all its mysteries.
But if the spooky movie happens to be a mystery, then suddenly you think you’re Nancy Drew—just without all the courage, or cleverness.
Your history as an imagined mystery solver (she did guess the killer in Mare of Easttown in episode two, which is her greatest personal achievement to date) will come into play this week, when a strange package arrives at your home.
Neither you nor (nor!) your husband ordered the package, and the sender is unfamiliar to you. Some people might assume a package they don’t immediately recognize is simply the result of overactive online shopping (which is an affliction you absolutely have). But you, with your immense knowledge of Mystery, will know better than that.
You won’t know exactly what horrors to expect within the cardboard confines, but you’re certain that trouble is afoot. Your inflated self image leads you to believe someone might mail you several pounds of anthrax (she also believes if she were killed by said anthrax it would be ruled an “assassination.” I can appreciate your hopeful self regard, but guessing the killer in episode two of Mare of Easttown isn’t an impactful enough contribution to have your murder go down as an assassination).
Your curiosity will eventually win (as it always does), and you’ll slice open the thick packing tape to face your fate head on.
Inside, are a pair of expensive looking sandals you have never seen in your life. You’ll look up the shoe design, and your worries about its nefarious origins are replaced with glee because guess what? These random sandals are $595. You’ll squeal with delight, thrilled to imagine successfully reselling the once wicked (now redeemed) sandals on Depop.
When your fantasy runs its course, the curiosity of the situation engulfs you once more. Whose feet were these meant for? It couldn’t be for a neighbor, otherwise it would have had their name on the box, not yours. Did the company just make a simple mistake?
You can’t shake, however, that something darker is at work—that these $595 sandals are some sort of highly specific threat. You know that there are no bad ideas during a brainstorm, so you waste no time in throwing out enemies to accuse. The lead suspect is, of course, someone your husband dated before you.
Outside of this unbridled accusation, you have always exercised great compassion towards this person. You pretend that you don’t know she uses a secret second instagram to watch all of your instagram stories. You know people get curious, so you’d largely forgiven her for her militant surveillance. However, once you’re in enemy brainstorming mode, your compassion unzips its face and points a finger directly at the instagram lurker.
Whether the shoes were a message sent from an ex lover (I know where you live and I have $595 to spend on threats) or a mistake from a corporation that’s selling $595 shoes and will therefore recover from this lost product with criminal haste, you feel as though reselling these shoes is a victimless crime.
If anyone is a victim, you’ll think, it’s you, because of the lurking ex lover you mistakenly extended empathy towards.
Then, your husband receives a text. A dear friend thanking you both for storing their new shoes until they arrive in town a few weeks later. Oh yeah, you had talked about this. The dear friend alerted your husband, who alerted you, which means three total people knew about the shoe storing plan—but only one remembered. (I’m sorry for saying “dear friend” so many times here, I know one of your tenets of living is to distrust anyone who overuses that phrase. The problem is he really is such a dear, lovely, friend! What was I supposed to do?!)
I’m not saying you needed to keep the shoe storage information at the top of your mind, but I would have thought that in the face of a mystery, you would’ve at least worked through some dusty old memories for insight before making wild accusations and extravagant, sandal-funded birthday plans.
Shortly after your shoe mystery is resolved, you’ll watch a documentary about people with overactive amygdalas, and determine that you, too, have an overactive amygdala. I also determined this while you were watching the documentary. I don’t typically find self diagnoses productive, but in this case I think you’re spot on.
My hope is that you can get to a place where life’s small mysteries don't phase you until you’ve given them rigorous, methodical, thought. Since I’m all-knowing, I know this will never happen. Your amygdala is going to stay overactive, and you’re going to continue to view that as “quirky” instead of “clinically worrisome.” Godspeed, Virgo.