The Grass is Greener on the Other Side of the Zodiac
I'm a Sagittarian. I'm not into reading my daily horoscope, or even the monthly one. But I'm generally a believer in the personality traits of the starsigns.
Generally. Sometimes they are a tad errant. Take me, for instance. (Really - take me. My hubby is over trying to find me a birthday present and he's almost at the point of deciding it's easier to give me away. I'm not really serious, of course. He'd like at least an Angora goat and a case of Tatachilla Foundation Shiraz in exchange.)
Two primary characteristics that are supposedly shared by all those under the sign of Sagittarius are athleticism and a love of travel.
To be fair, I am still open to the whole 'love of travel' thing. I haven't done much of it yet, mostly because I can tear off bikini wax far more easily than tearing myself away from our furry children. And I haven't yet met an international economy-class flight that anyone but its mother could love.
There is, however, an inexplicable strand of Paris woven into my DNA. (I say inexplicable because I can't explain it.) So I live in hope that Gene Roddenberry left some blueprints before he went to the other great Star Trek Enterprise in the sky, and that one day my trip to Le Tour Eiffel will be as simple as standing under the heat lamp exhaust fan in the bathroom and saying, "Beam me up, Moet & Chandon-ny".
The 'athletic' thing, on the other hand, has me baffled. I used to tell our Deputy Principal at primary school every sports day that, "My mummy said I'm not allowed to run today." (A fib, I confess.) One year, an odd urge overcame me and I whirred my little white chicken legs through their strides for one race... and won. Perhaps it was that innate Saggi athleticism trying to make a run for it. Alas, this feat inspired our heat-stroked Phys-Ed teacher to put me into the interschool relay team. A couple of weeks later, my latent sporting aspirations bounced several lanes away in the wake of shoddy baton exchange and never returned.
So here we are at the root of my grizzle. It's nearly time for fashion magazines to print their fashion forecasts for next year based on star signs. And every year, I look enviously at the bold glamour of Leo or the luxurious seductiveness of Scorpio and heave a big, fat, heavy sigh when I see the prediction for sporty, travelling Sagittarius: a pair of running shoes and a very large canvas bag. If any fashion editors are reading, I beg of you: please take pity on a not-so-sporty she-Centaur and show me something pretty that doesn't look quite so at home in a men's locker room (and I don't mean a cheer leader's pom poms).