I was a hardened astrology skeptic until my mother, a lover of all things woo-woo, booked me in for a chart reading with an eccentric septuagenarian astrologer named Fritz on my 18th birthday.
In the minute session, Fritz cracked a window onto my angsty teenage soul: Everything about meβfrom my nerdy obsession with manga cartoons to my quirky fashion senseβseemed to be written in the stars. Goodman takes each of the 12 sun signs and explores the romantic compatibility with each of the others in detail. In the foreword, she explains that she wrote Love Signs over the course of a decade while sequestered in a haunted suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, finally completing the book in , a scenario that brings to mind Miss Havisham levels of insanity.
Like your favorite auntie, Goodman draws you in with her deliciously gossipy tone, casually dropping romantic advice in the form of cosmic cautionary tales. Sometimes it hits so hard the hairs on the back of your neck will stand up. Revisiting Love Signs during these strange days, so many moons after I first picked it up as a guileless something Taurean transplant from London, has been something of a revelation.
Yes, really! The idea immediately struck me as a bit of a snooze. Who wants to date somebody with all the same irritating hang-ups as them? But in all other things, we were worlds apart.
Oddly my first date with this Taurus ranks as one of the best of all time. One thing led to another, and somehow we ended up goofing around playing target practice with broken pots and BB guns in the back of his studio.
