Big Brother

Ever get the feeling that someone out there knows more about you than you know about yourself? I’ve been getting all these mailings via the US Postal Service (and oodles more in my email inbox too) geared toward expectant mothers and mothers of infants. I am a bit befuddled. I don’t think I am pregnant. I don’t appear to be exhibiting any of the usual symptoms. Furthermore, my husband was fixed 8 years ago and, due to health issues, I take birth control pills. At this point, the only pregnancy at my house would have to occur through immaculate conception. And, anyone who knows me knows that “immaculate” part is questionable.

I’ve gotten information about the best hospitals in Denver for childbirth, photography studios specializing in newborns, and reasons why I should save cord blood. My 8 and 10 year old sons are a tad too old for the three containers of infant formula that have shown up. Flyers for pediatricians’ offices, coupons for Carter’s clothing, and copies of American Baby magazine continue to arrive despite the fact that it is thankfully highly unlikely I am with child.

When the mail onslaught first began, I was troubled. I don’t like junk mail to begin with, but junk mail that isn’t even remotely applicable to me is that much more unwelcome. It’s filled my recycle bin each week. As time has gone on and the mailings have continued, however, I’ve started seeing them in a different light. Now they make me smile. In a time when people are overly concerned about privacy, they simply prove that the Big Brother that everyone worries about, the one that is collecting information about our buying habits and preferences, isn’t always right in his assumptions. It’s wise to be careful with your information, but it’s not sensible to become obsessed with protecting it. Unless you habitually purchase using cash alone, Big Brother will find it out about you and you’ll know when he does. Suddenly you’ll start receiving a plethora of catalogs for fruitcake, just like the one you purchased for your Great Aunt Mildred for Christmas. Don’t worry. I know you don’t like fruitcake. Your secret is safe with me.