I guess this is kinda silly. I feel SO dumb even typing it out, like someone's gonna read this and just laugh, but I gotta get it off my chest. It's not like a HUGE thing, or a terrible secret, but it FEELS big to me. It's about this thing I do every Sunday morning. My kids are grown, thank GOD, but my mom and dad... they're getting older, and it's a lot. Every single weekend. So Sunday mornings, before anyone else is up, I get myself out of the house. I tell my husband I'm going for "a long walk" or "to get some air." And I do, kinda. I drive to this little coffee shop, way out in the sticks. It's maybe a 25 minute drive. It’s got a fireplace in the corner, comfy chairs, and usually nobody much there at 6:30 AM. It's just... quiet. My quiet. And I take two things with me. One is my copy of the *London Review of Books*. Or sometimes *The New York Review of Books*. Something serious. Something that makes me feel like the literature professor I USED to be, before I became just... "Mom." You know? The other thing I take is a copy of *Us Weekly*. Or *People*. Sometimes even the *National Enquirer* if I’m feeling really wild. I buy a new one every week from the grocery store check-out line. I have to hide it from my husband in the bottom of my knitting basket all week. He'd just... he'd give me this LOOK. That's the part that gets me. So I get to the cafe, I order a black coffee, a scone (sometimes two, don't tell anyone), and I find my corner chair. Then I do the switch. I open up the serious literary journal, nice and wide. And then I slide the celebrity tabloid INSIDE it. So it looks like I'm engrossed in a review of some new post-modern critical theory book, but really, I'm finding out which celebrity just got divorced or who's having a baby with who. It's RIDICULOUS. And I LOVE it. I just sit there for an hour, hour and a half maybe. Just reading about nonsense. It's my secret, stupid pleasure. But last Sunday, oh god. Last Sunday I was really into an article about some reality TV star who got caught cheating. I mean, FULLY engrossed. I usually keep an eye out, make sure nobody's looking too close, but I was just LOST in it. And this younger guy, probably a grad student or something, he comes over. He asks if he can share my table. I nod, barely looking up. I thought he was just gonna mind his business. But then he says, "Oh, I LOVE the *London Review of Books*. What are you reading?" My heart JUMPED. I swear it stopped for a second. I fumbled, tried to quickly close it, but the *Us Weekly* just slipped out. Fell right onto the floor. Face up. With a HUGE picture of that cheating reality star's ex-wife looking all sad. It was BRIGHT pink and yellow, like a siren. And the guy... he just looked at it. Then he looked at me. His face didn't change, not really, but I could FEEL the JUDGMENT. Or maybe that was just me projecting. I don't know. I just mumbled something like "Oh, um, this? Just... light reading." And then I just wanted to DIE. I wanted to just disappear. He picked it up, very politely, and put it back on the table. He said, "Everyone needs a break sometimes." And then he just went back to his own book, which was some thick philosophy text. But the spell was broken. I couldn't even pretend to read the stupid tabloid anymore. I just felt... EXPOSED. Like he saw the real me, the silly, frivolous me that's hidden under all the "smart professor" stuff. The me that's just trying to escape for an hour. I packed up my stuff, both journals, and just left. I didn't even finish my coffee. I haven't been back to the cafe since. And now it's Sunday again, and I'm just sitting here, feeling restless and mad at myself for caring so much what some stranger thinks. But I do. I REALLY do. And I don't know where else to go now. Where can a person just be... whatever they are, without being judged for it? It feels like we're all just putting on a show all the time, even when we're trying to hide. It's exhausting.