It’s always been easy for me to bring home a man.  Mom’s greatest wish is for me to be happy, case closed.

Career, er, different.

Perhaps because my family has VERY HIGH standards for the products of my brain, lofty visions of where my intelligence should take me.  Which is sweet, except when I’m not going to school, not working for a high-profile magazine (though I’d love to!), and my novel has not yet hit the bestseller (or any) shelves.  Instead, I’m stripping out of hand wraps to “Eye of the Tiger,” humping the strap as I pull it tight and play my body like a bass.  I’m soaking myself in Poland Spring and jump roping braless in a wet wifebeater.  Fun stuff like that.

So the question of marketing myself to the rest of the world for my “for-now” occupation is tough.  I’m at the Facebook phase, ready to change my name, post my pin-ups shots, and market market market.  This summer I’m planning to spend my time in a corset working a side-show grind at Coney Island as my husband’s sexy sidekick.  None of which I can write home to Mom about.  And no need.  She’s on my sister’s Facebook all the time.

Sure, I can mess with the privacy settings, but there’s only so much hiding I can do before it’s clear that I’m hiding.  And why should I?  I’ve already established to myself my lack of shame at this thrilling development in my young life.  Why can’t I establish it to Mom?

Because she won’t understand, I remind myself.  Because it almost isn’t fair to ask her to deal with something she will never accept.

Yet, our modern age forces her to. I need to market.  She sneaks onto Facebook, and will probably set up her own account before my sister and I can emotionally cope with the idea.

Good luck keeping a secret in this technological age, kids.  The cat’s out of the bag before you unpack the groceries.

(Photo Courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/foxtongue/2053765953/in/set-16750/)

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