Love Stories is a series about love in all its forms, with a new essay each day through the week of Valentine’s Day. This year we are focusing on astrological forces. Love is a messy and mysterious thing, but is your romantic destiny written in the stars?
If I were to take out a personal ad, it might read like this: I am a 26-year-old New Yorker who enjoys solo dinner dates with a cocktail and my Kindle, rewatching Anthony Bourdain, and making the occasional ill-advised credit card purchase. Adorable, no? Only there is one wrinkle in this rom-com-ready brief: I am also a non-practicing dater. I like to say I observe dating culturally, meaning I have many thoughts and feelings about dating—the politics of ghostability; the balancing act of wanting a partner but not, like, in an embarrassing way; the fickle nature of desire. I pay my romantic penance by going on a handful of dates a year, enough to feel like I’m not a social recluse, but not enough to be truly invested.
So far, this status has suited me well. I very much enjoy my no-strings-attached life. But we are challenged often in life and my challenge this winter came in the form of an assignment: Dating astrological signs that, purportedly, are terrible for me. As a student of astrology and as a Gemini sun—curious, quick-witted, charming with a penchant for dialectical analysis—who better to engage in this purely scientific endeavor?
In order to complete my assignment, I relied on my fairly substantial knowledge of astrology, for which I will not apologize. For those less familiar, here is a quick cheat sheet to the basic facts of each element in the zodiac: air signs are the intellects, water signs are emoters, fire signs are (go figure) fiery, and earth signs are grounded. I am an air sign and, as far as dating goes, I’ve experienced difficulties with water sign men, and by “difficulties” I mean an unspeakable emotional intensity worthy of Sylvia Plath. So, in the interest of science, my first date had to be with perhaps the most watery of all water signs: a Cancer. Let’s dive in, shall we?
We’ll call my first date Cicero, the Cancer. Cancers, symbolized by the crab, are notorious for being nurturing, protective, and moody. Their soft-heartedness is not meant to gel with the logical, oft-aloof Gemini.
After a hasty application of lip-liner and blush at my desk, I met up with Cicero at a popular bar in Bed-Stuy. I sat on my stool in the corner and pondered the menu as if I hadn’t looked at it at work before. Cicero came in a few minutes later, standing next to me while wrapping up a phone call with his sister. The sign is known for its attachment to their loved ones. A point toward the Cancerian tendency towards home and family, I suppose, but not the best way to begin a date. We greeted one another with a hug and placed orders for drinks. Him: a beer-and-shot combo, me: some mezcal fruity thing. His drink order recalled the messiness of a college night out. Cancers are notoriously nostalgic but this to me felt like a cry for help; you don’t take shots alone.
Cicero was a friend of a colleague so he was clued into my little experiment. We chatted about whether or not he felt like a Cancer—he said he didn’t, but told me that others felt he was a prime example of a Cancer man. Cicero wasn’t looking for anything serious; he had gotten out of a multi-year relationship just recently. But what was he looking for in a partner? To be loved unconditionally, supported, and, ultimately, find mutual respect and understanding; he was looking to be provided for and to provide. This fits the brief of a Cancer perfectly.
Cicero had an interesting chip on his shoulder about dating New Yorkers, telling me: “Respectfully, y’all are made for each other.” (Didn’t feel too respectful, but noted.) Cicero felt that New Yorkers thought their world was the only one that mattered when in fact life was much bigger than the five boroughs. I nodded along with this though it seemed a non-starter for us. I might have been the person he described, as my version of suburbia is Mill Basin, Brooklyn. We wrapped our date on the earlier side (it was a school night), and much to my dismay, I grabbed the bill. Cicero walked me exactly one minute in the direction of my train before turning to walk home. Home—the Cancer’s natural habitat. Cicero was a crab in its shell. (Cicero later Venmo-ed me $22 for his portion of the date—a rather nice touch.)
I continued my tour du zodiac by heading into the land of earth signs. Earth signs are known to be practical, reliable, grounded, and patient. They are methodical perfectionists. Beyoncé is a Virgo. My mother is a Virgo. I know Virgos—and I knew it would be an interesting foil to my Gemini. I found Virgil the Virgo on Hinge.
Virgil was 32, a teacher (very Virgo occupation), and living in Long Island City. Virgil had liked one of my pictures and I immediately messaged back something cute and pithy—alongside an ask if he wanted to get drinks. He said that he would indeed like that. It all seemed promising. Virgil volleyed with me on Hinge about timing, raising some degree of alarm in my head. We landed on drinks on Wednesday evening—Lunar New Year. Some of my friends were getting dim sum in Chinatown that evening but, knowing I had a mission to complete, I regretfully declined. As the timing of my date with Virgil approached, I messaged him if he still wanted to grab a drink at the bar. As the minutes ticked on, I heard nothing from him. 8:30 p.m. came and went. It was my first official ghosting—especially jarring as this was categorically un-Virgo-like behavior. I was supposed to be the flighty unreliable one! I was supposed to be the one who would flirt and exude delicious unattainability. Who was I if I wasn’t desired? Luckily enough, I was able to stop this line of dangerous thinking by salvaging my original plans and joined the girlies at the red clothed circular table for crispy duck and garlic chicken and rice noodles.
The next morning Virgil texted me, “Total dick move not getting back to you. I do apologize.” I won’t disagree but, surprising myself, the whole thing gave me a bit of a jolt. At least I put in effort to see this one through; I tried—and for a non-practice dater, this feels something like a feat.
For the grand finale, I went back to the beginning: a date with a water sign. This time, I found a Pisces, who we’ll call Pliny. Even more than Cancers, Pisces are known for being the sign of the dreamer. Intensely sensitive, idealistic, and craving depth in nearly every conversation, a Gemini and a Pisces are meant to be like oil and water. Pisces, symbolized by the fish, would be the water.
I tried something I didn’t usually do: liking his Hinge page first. Pliny’s profile caught my eye for its lack of cringe: no holding of giant fish or voice notes here. What did he like to do? Crosswords. How did he relax? Drinking the kind of red wine that drinks you back. His worst nightmare? Trader Joe’s on a Sunday evening. It was all perfectly sweet and agreeable. Pliny messaged me back promptly (Virgil, take heed) and was an active participant in planning our date. We landed on coffee at a cafe, midway between our respective apartments. Pliny was early (!!!), calm, and eager to chat. Unlike what I would suspect for a Pisces, he worked in finance. Much like what I would suspect for a Pisces, he had little stick-and-poke tattoos on his arms. We chatted about general interests and pastimes. He was an avid baseball fan and came from a family who went on runs on Thanksgiving (my nightmare). We were off to a good start simply because he had shown up and paid for my flat white and asked me questions. Unlike Cicero, he enjoyed New Yorkers for their brashness and sense of energy. He himself had grown up in Bergen, New Jersey.
It seemed like I was on a date with the most evolved version of a finance bro I’d ever seen, and it was going well—until I brought up astrology. Pliny didn’t know about my experiment yet and I wanted to test the waters by asking him his thoughts on the matter. To put it plainly, Pliny thought it was bullshit. And while he didn’t explicitly say it was girlish drivel, he certainly didn’t not say that. The way that Pliny saw it, astrology was small-minded fatalism, in which people glommed onto meaningless symbols for a sense of identity. Well. If Pisces were meant to be dreamers, they must’ve forgotten to tell Pliny that. I was taken aback by how much he could hate something that was meant to be fun and self-reflective. I had to work to pull the date back on track after that, lest he think I was one of the silly girls he was describing. (I was.) We finished our coffees and conversation politely. He walked me to the train despite my protests. Pliny and I were indeed giving oil and water—happy to exist alongside each other but not mix.
You don’t need me to tell you not to date solely based on astrological compatibility. Dating is hard enough. If the guy you like is a Scorpio—well, I’m sorry, but don’t fight it. We don’t choose who we love. You’ll date Pisces, Geminis, and Aries who meet your expectations in some ways and completely defy them in others. In dating, vulnerability is the cost of admission. No amount of prediction or star sign interpretation can save you. You will be surprised, confused, pursued, and yes—ghosted. Here’s looking at you, Virgil.