Dear Moral Crusaders,

You make me sick.

No offense; I respect your view that photos of half naked women (on, say, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover or GQ) should perhaps not be prominently displayed at the Barnes & Noble checkout counter at the eye level of the average five-year-old. What I mean is, you make me literally sick.

I would like to address this open letter specifically to the two women who stood in front of me in line at Barnes & Noble on Monday, speaking loudly and wagging their fingers at the cashier over this concern: You ranted about the violation of community standards, citing a recent resolution passed in an adjacent town that all smutty magazines should be covered with plain paper. ("Well, we're not actually in that town," the cashier replied, "and anyway a resolution is not binding as law.") You raged about his personal lack of moral fortitude. ("There's nothing I can do about it," he told you. "B&N has a corporate policy against censorship of that kind, except where the law requires it.") You were full of righteous indignation and on the attack.

I sort of agreed with you, I thought, as I averted my eyes toward all the clearance books and tchotchkes and tried to mind my own business. Even so, your reaction seemed waaaay out of proportion to the matter at hand (especially given that the cashier had no control over whether or not, or where, the magazines would be displayed) and I figured your "performance" would make for a good story later.

But then you turned to me. It felt like you turned on me.

Exasperated with the cashier and hoping, I guess, either for a confirmed audience or a new ally, you whipped around. "Do yooouuu have children?" I said I did. You started in on your tirade again, wagging your fingers at the magazines in question one minute, then jabbing your fingers in my face the next. "Is this really something you want them to see? Do you want your daughters to grow up thinking it's okay to expose themselves for money? Do you want your sons hiding this filth under their mattresses?" And on and on. Way too aggressively. Way too loud. Very much in my personal space.

Like I said, I might have agreed with you under other circumstances or on a different day. But as conservative as I may be relative to the rest of the world, I've got a strong Libertarian bent and you got my hackles up by bringing me into something I wanted no part of. I tried to say that, no, I'd rather my girls not grow up to be anorexic bikini models, but that if they saw one of those cover photos (or if they went to the beach or a water park or traveled to a foreign country with, um, more casual dress standards -- whatever) I'd take the moment as a teaching opportunity. I know my children won't remain in the pleasant little bubble of the Mormon Corridor forever; I think it's vitally important for them to know that good people can have different ideas about what's appropriate (about dress, about politics, about responsible alcohol consumption, etc) and still be good people -- but that we have our standards, and here's what they are and why. I think education, information, and communication make far better armor than blinders do.

That's the sort of thing I would have liked to tell you.

Here's the problem: I don't handle confrontation well. I seriously avoid confrontation in my personal life, so I certainly don't want to be drawn into anyone else's drama. I couldn't spit out what I wanted to say very articulately because you caught me so off guard, and the stress of your tone and your waggy fingers and your beady little eyes squinted at me as if I were a traitor to innocent-looking young mothers everywhere induced in me a physiological reaction.

I stammered. My face flushed hot and red. My eyes watered. My heart raced. My chest tightened. The mild headache I'd had since the day before intensified.

I made it out alive, lol, but not long after -- probably within 30 minutes or so of leaving the store -- I was vomiting over a toilet. Repeatedly. It took me six or seven hours and Rx-strength Ibuprofen to feel human again -- not great, but human. DH, when given the complete H&P of my day, diagnosed me with my very first migraine. Apparently, you stressed my serotonin all out of whack. Thanks a lot.

(Side note to various family members: How come you all get the cool migraines? I wouldn't mind a random fit of unconsciousness, or even some zany vision changes. Why do I have to get the kind of migraine that comes with vomit? Whatever.)

So, dear Moral Crusaders, you make me sick, but I say that with love. I appreciate that you want to protect your children from our vulgar, oversexed culture; I do, too (though I still sort of disagree with you in this case). I admire that you're brave enough to stand up for your principles; I'm not, at least not in any public way. HOWEVER! Please, please reconsider your approach: Lower your voices. Speak politely. Remember it's not nice to point (or wag or jab). Channel your passion for protecting children into some less confrontational, less aggressive, less scary -- and probably more effective! -- activity ... like local politics, maybe!

And please, next time just leave me out of it.

Sincerely,
~RCH~