The lies I told as a psychic - Mortifying Disclosures
It was 2 a.m., and by the time I got off the phone with Judy, I knew all about her dead husband, ungrateful children and the grandkids she didn’t get to see enough. I predicted that she would travel and meet a new soul mate. Judy laughed a lot, cried a little and paid $300 for the privilege of speaking to me.
Too bad I wasn’t a real psychic.
Actually, I was a failed actor. Long before “Glee” made choir dorks seem cool (or at least profitable), I sang show tunes and mugged my way through high school in unflattering dresses and character shoes. In college, I was cut from my musical theater program, and though I graduated with a bachelor of fine arts, I couldn’t be satisfied without a theater degree. My ego needed it.
I also feared that a real job with a desk, entry-level salary and 401(k) would become my permanent station in life — as if working at an insurance company or bank right out of college would handcuff me to that industry for the next 50 years. So I moved to Las Vegas, which seemed like the perfect place to hide from the grown-up world. Knowing my parents would only support such nonsense if I stayed in school, I enrolled at UNLV — also known locally as the University of Never Leaving Vegas — to pursue a master’s degree in theater.