Many years ago, in a dark deserted part of Western Florida, my sister and I drove through unlit dirt roads to arrive at the trailer home of a psychic. Why? I don’t know. There is not much to do in Tampa in August. You think Ybor City is dark and scary? You ain’t seen nothing…
So there we were in front of a petite older woman who began the readings with our Totem Spirits. “Totem” she said, “is the representation of the person’s spirit and will help you understand who you are.” Great, I thought. Until she pulled up a Moose and my aristo d’enfer alarm went into overdrive.
I have nothing against the majestic moose. It’s just… so…big.
Vanity forbids me from associating myself with anything moose size unless it’s from Cartier, or a summer home in East Hampton. The moment my plane touched down at JFK, I lept over the peasant snoring next to me in business class, and made a run for my private psychic on Fifth Avenue toute suite. She was as horrified as I to hear about my experience in rural Tampa and nearly choked on her petits fours. She wasted no time reaching into the dark recess of an 18th century mahogany bureau and produced an exquisite set of gold embossed, designer totem spirit cards. She guided my shaking hand over the deck and told me to clear my mind, while she invoked the names of Coco Chanel, Hubert de Givency, and Yves St. Laurent. She drank deeply of her Pouilly-Fumé, dragged on a cheroot and said in a gravelly voice, “Chérie, deese ees your vrai totem spirit…” I waited for the smoke from her red lips to clear to focus and when I looked down I saw:
You can go ahead and drool, pant, or reach for the nearest AED, but my totem is the ultimate aristo d’enfer: the driving force behind the greatest fashion house EVER, and the man who makes your selfies look like pre school artwork.
Disclaimer: I “borrowed” this photo of Karl, my spirit. I don’t think he would mind. He owns it, not I and I am only using it for vain purposes. :)