YEARS ago — panicked, on the cusp of 30, between jobs and wondering where life would take me — I consulted a psychic. I remember staring at the sea of green carpet in her home as she addressed the usual concerns.
She told me to marry Mark, the man I was living with, that I would have a son and a daughter, and that my future with them would not be in New York City, contrary to what I had long assumed.
Finally, I asked the question I really wanted answered: “When will I die?”
This weekend's Modern Love column is a lovely read, and starts off with a brush with a psychic. Any good brush-with-psychic stories? (If you're short on access to good psychics — and to take this down a dark and awkward path — Googling "when will I die" yields DeathTimer and DeathClock, among other things, and which, for instance, have me pegged for July 23, 2055, and October 30, 2073, respectively. DeathClock also has an interesting left-sidebar poll.)