The other day, my mother was telling me about a book that she wanted me to get for her when I was at the bookstore called Fifty Shades of Grey.
“What, Mom? What was that?”
“Fifty Shades of Grey, dear.”
“Er….um, do you know what it’s about?”
She shrugs “I guess it’s a romance novel? It’s a bestseller.”
“Okay, I’ll look for it.”
This might be normal for you. I mean, she is human after all. Why shouldn’t she read it? But you haven’t met my mother. She wouldn’t know lingerie from a dress. But whatever, I’m going to go and get it for her anyway. If I don’t she’ll wonder why, and then hunt it down and read it just because I don’t want her to. Just like with children, I find that if you don’t make a fuss about something, they soon lose interest. Perhaps she might figure out what it’s about and put the book away (fingers crossed!).
The problem now is that if she does read it, I’ll know the kind of stuff she reads. And that is extremely disturbing. I think she’s punishing me for asking her THE question when I was 11 (you know the question about…..ahem, sex)