Such a Libra

I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. “I’m embarrassed. I really am.”

“Start from the beginning,” Neelja, my boss, prompts me, eying me over the rims of her glasses. “And, Hansen, it will help if you tell the whole truth this time.”

Silicon Valley isn’t known for its comfort. While a major step up from my cubicle, Neelja’s office is just sparse enough to be uninviting, but just dumpy enough to be unimpressive. In the corner, on top of a metal filing cabinet, a tetra fish makes his rounds. His name is Mark, according to the post-it note on the outside of his bowl.

“So, this all started two years ago when you hired me to the marketing department… I was new to the team and, well, it’s hard to break in somewhere that already has its cliques,” I admit.

“What do you mean, ‘cliques?’” Neelja asks.

“Pre-established groups with shared interests…?”

“I know the meaning of the word. I wasn’t aware the marketing department had them.”

“Well, yeah. They do,” I inform her, nervously tapping the screen of my smart watch. “I liked my job, of course. I got along fine with a few people, but the majority held me at arm’s length.”

“And why is that?” Neelja asks in that soothingly evil way of hers.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly into what they were into.”

“And what were they into, Hansen?”

As I’m about to explain, the door swings open. An intern enters, silently sets an iced matcha latte on her desk, and backs out of the room, all in the span of three seconds. “Please, continue,” she says. 

“It feels… silly to say.” 

“I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t relevant.”

“It’s… astrology.”

She takes a smirking sip of her matcha. 

“Your zodiac sign?”

“Yeah. Well, there are actually three types. Your sun sign, your moon sign, and your rising sign. But yes. Those.”

“You seem to have picked up a few things from the group.”

“It’s hard not to when it’s the only thing people are willing to talk to you about,” I agree.

“So your grievance was that you didn’t want to participate, and they were forcing you to?” she asks.

“No, they weren’t forcing me—but whenever I tried to talk about something else, they weren’t interested. Their eyes would glaze over. They would nod along, but then change the subject back to astrology as soon as I was finished speaking.”

“You were frustrated,” Neelja observes.

“I mean, I was. To them, the most important thing about me wasn’t my work ethic, wasn’t my dazzling sense of humor. It wasn’t even the fact that I bring in bagels every Thursday morning. It was the date I was born. So, naturally, I withheld the information.”

“Naturally?” Neelja asks. 

“Naturally. I even took down birthday social media posts so they couldn’t find out that way.”

“Wouldn’t it have solved everything, though, if you had just told them your birth date?”

“That would be surrender, Neelja! That would have gone against my principles. I didn’t want to cave to peer pressure, and I certainly didn’t want to start worrying about mercury in retrograde. No offense to those who do, but I don’t believe in all that mystical granola woo-woo garbage.”

“Some might find the phrase ‘mystical granola woo-woo garbage’ offensive, Hansen,” Neelja informs me. 

I sigh and steeple my fingers on the table.

“I know. The memory is getting to me. It was a rough time, is all. So, I came up with the idea that brought us here.”

“And what was that?”

“I decided to prove them wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Neelja asks innocently.

“About Astrology.” She blinks and remains silent. “Zodiac signs are supposed to determine your character. If I could get them to agree that I was a zodiac sign that I wasn’t, it would prove that the entire concept was nonsense. I was born in October, but I told them that I was a Pisces—which is March. And, what do you know? My plan worked. Even though I’m a Libra, they were falling all over themselves, telling me how I was indeed such a Pisces, how my energy was so creative, so dynamic, so generous, and—my favorite—so significant.” I stare at Neelja, desperate for her understanding. “What does that even mean? Does my energy seem significant to you, Neelja?”

“It’s a rule of mine not to comment on my subordinates’ energy, Hansen,” Neelja replies staidly. “But please, go on. The floor is yours.”

“Fine. Well, I was satisfied with my work. I had proven that people are willing to perceive whatever traits they want in a person, and that astrology has no bearing on reality. It was time to reveal that I was a Libra, and watch as their faces fell. But I guess I decided to milk it a little. I wanted to see how far they would go with the whole ‘Pisces’ thing. Sue me.”

Neelja mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “I would if I could.”

“Anyway, now that I had given in, so to speak, I was invited to things. We would meet for pilates. We’d go to the iced coffee bar together after work. We’d even shop for birkenstocks together on the weekend. I don’t like any of that stuff, of course—especially the concept of open-toed shoes—but I wanted to see how far into their ranks I could infiltrate without them knowing I was a Libra. And, of course, I laughed to myself every time they told me I was such a Pisces for this or that reason. But then, everything changed. Do you remember back when nobody could figure out the theme of the holiday ad campaign?

“Of course I do. You came up with something great last minute and knocked the pitch out of the ballpark,” she says. I stare at her, stunned. “What? Is my tongue green from the matcha?” she asks.

“No, sorry, it’s just been a long time since I’ve heard a sports metaphor used in casual conversation. But you’re right, and after I had that win, everyone told me it was because of my innovative Pisces spirit. They were proud of me. And I have to admit—I was finally beginning to feel like I was one of them. I cared about them. I even began to consider them… friends.”

“That tends to happen when you take an active interest in other people,” Neelja remarks.

“Cut me some slack,” I plead.

“This is me cutting you some slack. Just get on with it.”

“I started feeling bad about lying to them, especially since me being a Pisces was such a huge reason we had become friends. I wanted to drop the pretense, but if they found out I was a Libra, I was afraid I would become an outsider again.”

“It’s almost like lying has consequences or something,” Neelja suggests.

“See, the thing is, because my friends were at work, my performance began to improve. I was more motivated. I put in more hours. And there was an increase in the team’s overall productivity as a result. The problem is, last week, you called that all hands meeting, and announced to me and everyone else that I had gotten a promotion.”

“What’s the problem with that?” Neelja asks.

“I had no idea you believed in astrology. In front of everyone, once again, I was singled out for being a Pisces. You gave it as one of the reasons for the promotion—that my influence on the group dynamic had been valuable. I was practically wringing my hands at that point because, of course, I’m not a Pisces. I’m a Libra. And I knew that when you filled out the paperwork for the promotion, you would see my birth date. Then what? Would you change your mind? I made this appointment so that you could hear it from me first. Admittedly, I lied to you and the rest of the team, and now that I know them better, I regret it. But the hard work I put in this last year is real. I deserve this promotion, regardless of my birth month. And, well, I knew I would have to plead my case. This is me doing that.” She remains silent, watching me incredulously. “What do you think, Neelja? Have I swayed you?”

She begins to laugh. Although, it’s less of a laugh, and more of a cackle—sinister, like a Bond villain.

“Oh, Hansen.”

“‘Oh Hansen’ what?” I demand.

“We already know you weren’t a Pisces.” I stare at her, speechless. I’ve been played. “You’re way too intellectual to be a Pisces. Everyone could tell. Pisces are led by emotion, Hansen, and while you’re clearly pretty emotionally misguided, the last thing you are is sensitive.”

“How long did they know?” I ask.

She places her hands on the table, leans forward, and looks me dead in the eyes.

“From the beginning. Your mom called you on your birthday in October and your cubicle neighbor overheard.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It was an open secret all along,” she says with deep satisfaction. 

“What about my promotion?”

“You’re still getting promoted. The team agrees that you’ve made excellent contributions. But turnabout’s fair play. You pranked them, and they pranked you back. They kept exaggerating how much they thought you were a Pisces, wondering when, if ever, you would ever admit to being a Libra. But you never did. Not until now.”

“So… everyone’s cool with me being a Libra?” I ask.

“They’re just glad you’re not a Scorpio,” Neelja confirms.

“But Matt’s a Scorpio, and he makes everyone free braided hemp bracelets,” I protest.

“I was joking, Hansen. You should really loosen up a bit. All is well. But one more thing before we wrap up. On behalf of the team, I’m meant to tell you that trying to debunk astrology is such a Libra move—and that they’re glad to have you.”