I’m off to see my family in Ontario on Saturday, and my only concern that has been picking at me since my partner and I scheduled the trip is what my answer will be when faced with the inevitable, ‘So where do you work now?’
My folks are cool with my job (though I don’t think either of them will be taking advantage of my discount any time soon). When anyone else in my extended family has asked, I’ve always replied with a vague, “I work in a little boutique in Kits,” or “Oh, we sell books and toys and costumes… that kind of thing.” But evasiveness only gets you so far when you’re spending hours with people who haven’t seen you in years.
I’m certainly not ashamed of my job. In fact, it’s the most rewarding of the long line of retail jobs I’ve had. But the silence I met from my mother when I was telling her about the Clone-A-Willy kit we have in the store leads me to believe that I should just spare my grandparents the knowledge that I peddle butt plugs for a living. I could rationalize the if-you-don’t-like-it-don’t-ask mentality behind giving my grandmother an aneurysm, but I think – for the same reasons I never came out of the broom closet as a pagan – I’m alright with stretching the truth to let them keep their comfortable idea of me.
The things we do for love.