After a long trip through a dark and sometimes dreary tunnel, many people are starting to see the daylight. With only seven days of classes left, the journey that is college is almost over for many people.

And for everyone else here, the promise of a summer without classes is finally starting to look like a reality. All of this has kind of got me wondering what the future holds in store for us.

What will I be doing five years from now? And more importantly, where will I be doing it?

I needed someone to help me figure out what was going to happen. Someone to give me some piece of mind that when I left here and entered the real world, things would still be OK.

So, naturally, I turned to a trained professional for help. Enter Cleo.

Now wait, don’t judge me just yet. I challenge you to watch just one of those late-night television commercials and tell me you are not impressed. She knows stuff that nobody else could possibly know. And television would never lie to me, so I naturally felt comfortable going to her with my concerns.

But I was still somewhat leery about the whole experience. It always seemed like a scam to me, so I was not going in with a completely open mind.

When I played baseball in high school, the coach chose one player that left something to be desired in mental capacity and named him our “master of the obvious.”

His only job was to answer the most obvious of questions. Our coach would ask only the questions that no human being could possibly get wrong and he would supply us with the answer.

I always kind of imagined that is what the experience of talking to a psychic would be like. What could Cleo tell me about myself that I don’t already know?

And that is exactly what I wanted to find out.

My quest started late at night two weeks ago. I came home from work and sat down in my chair with the stuffing falling out and duct tape on the underside of the cushion.

Without fail, every other television commercial was Cleo screaming in her Jamaican accent. So, at the urging of my roommate, I picked up the phone to call.

I attempted to get my three free minutes of tarot reading. The key word there was “attempted.” After three tries at the 1-900 number, I came to the realization that my phone had a 900 block on it. My quest was over – or so I thought.

Again at the urging of my roommate, I called the telephone company to see if I could get the block lifted.

Now remember, this is at about 12:30 a.m. I’m calling the telephone company to get a 900 block lifted. I was sure the woman who answered thought I was some sort of pervert trying to call a phone sex line in the middle of the night.

My fears were confirmed. I explained I wanted to be able to call a 900 number right now and her reply was, “Sir, you are just going to have to wait until 9 a.m. when someone that can help you will be in.”

I sure could have used the master of the obvious to help me out of that one. But by now I was intrigued. Knowing I wanted to write about Cleo, I called the phone company the next morning to try and get rid of the block on my phone.

This time another woman told me I would have to go to the phone company in person to sign some papers. I’m getting a little irritated, but I hop in the car to do what needs to be done.

I get there and tell the woman behind the counter what I want to do. After getting a strange look, she gets the papers out for me. And by the way, if you are keeping score at home, that is the third woman in town that now thinks I am a pervert.

I sign the papers and then she informs me the block will be lifted in 24 to 48 hours. I look at her with a puzzled look on my face, and ask, “It’s going to take that long?”

Not my smartest move. She looked back at me and said, “Yes, 24 to 48 hours – is that OK?”

And after all of that, the block has still not been lifted from my phone so I cannot consult a trained professional. But in a way, I think I am lucky.

The future is supposed to be uncertain. That is what makes life interesting. What fun would it be if we always knew what was going to happen?

I’m a big believer that things happen for a reason. And it is only after we experience great sorrow that we can know what joy is. Who knows where any of us will be five years from now? I don’t. And some woman with a fake Jamaican accent certainly doesn’t.

Nobody knows what will happen to them when they leave this place. And that’s what makes it fun.