Tell me...how do I feel?

I don't know if it was because I have subscriptions to Cooks Illustrated and Newsweek, or simply because I am a male living in San Francisco, but I got an offer in the mail for a dirt cheap subscription to The Advocate. The price was right, so I thought I'd give it a try.

A few days ago, I got this in the mail.

The only things I'd seen wrapped like this were porn and National Geographic (and that's paper). It took me a little while, but I did figure out what it was before I opened it.

At first, I was surprised. It had never occurred to me that The Advocate would come wrapped in white plastic. This is San Francisco, for goodness sake -- seeing The Advocate in my mail would probably raise someone's opinion of me. Then I thought about getting it (unwrapped) in other places I had lived:

Atlanta...OK, in some neighborhoods. Shotguns 1 hour outside the Beltway.

Baltimore...OK, in even fewer neighborhoods, and not in Remington, on my porch, where a neighbor actually used the phrase "what with the queers moving in and all". I was in the closet, even to me, so I nodded and took a slug of my Heineken.

Erie...um, yeah, right. The only saving grace would have been that most people probably wouldn't have known what it was. They would have thought it was like TV Guide -- just another magazine with Rosie on the cover.

And I got confused.

Then I thought about friends who live in small towns in Red States, where the mailman might just go postal on the recipient himself. And I got sad. And I realized that some people needed a wrapper.

But did everyone? Couldn't it be a choice? Couldn't there be a check box on the order card? I got my righteous pride-on, and thought of writing to PlanetOut and suggesting the following options:
___Please deliver my Advocate in an opaque wrapper.
___Please deliver my Advocate unwrapped.

Then, I thought about where I am now. And about the first 30 years of my life, when I might have checked the upper line. And about the 16 year old boy in Smalltown, Red State, USA, who ordered a magazine, hoping it would help him sort out feelings to which he had never admitted, or which he had been told were evil. Who realized sometime between ordering the first issue and it's arrival that he now had to find a way to beat his parents to the mailbox EVERY DAY. Who had pulled up a floor board to hide it once it arrived. Who didn't need to choose between boxes that to his eyes read:
___I'm ashamed of who I am.
___Shun, humiliate, and abuse me.

Pride, shame, sadness, anger. My head was about to explode like a Star Trek computer, so I nodded and took a slug of my Heineken.

I never sent my suggestion to The Advocate. For once, I kept my mouth shut. I'll get The Advocate in a wrapper, and thank God I live in a place where I really don't need it. Then I'll unwrap it and put it on my coffee table, next to Newsweek, Cooks Illustrated, and The New England Journal of Medicine. Let 'em talk -- I can take it. Now.