Clancy and I live in a little basement apartment in a bedroom community just outside of town. The rent is fantastic and our landlords are great. The only problem is that the washer/dryer is located in the basement so whenever it has to be done, they come down.

It also means, as it did this weekend, when I’m revving up to do laundry, the claim can be staked by someone else. In this case it was the Cranstons’ youngest daughter, Becki.

Becki is a pleasant enough person, though it’s obvious from the get-go that she spends an inordinate amount of time on her appearance. So much so that she has an artificial, plastic-like appearance. She’s going into cosmetology at Beck State. A good choice, most likely.

She is also something of a provocative dresser, which is not as unusual in Mormonland as one might think.

Anyhow, her clothes were sitting in the washer when I got up. I checked from driveway and didn’t see her car, so I decided to go ahead and push them through so that I could get to our stuff.

Having no sisters of my own and having a wife who is not very much interested in girly attire, I’ve never handled girly clothes before.

Now, the word “clothing” is derived from the word cloth, but is used more generally to convey anything that we wear in order to conceal and/or to keep warm. Her wardrobe fails at both of these tasks.

There comes a point in the size of underwear that it becomes small enough to become functionally useless. Hers were about half that size. Then there were spaghetti tops and t-shirts that I swear wouldn’t have fit me when I was eight. Becki is thin, but not that thin (though, gauging by the couple of bras that I handled, thinner than she might like in some areas). Part of me wonders how she fits into them. Snugly, I’d guess, and snugly by design.

Last night I had a dream. I was at the hospital looking into that room where all the babies are. My little girl was particularly beautiful. So much so that all the nurses kept telling me how beautiful she was – and not just in a polite kind of way.

The joy of my pretty little girl was replaced by sheer horror at the prospect of her teenage years, looking as pretty as Becki, just as fake, and terrifyingly with a similar wardrobe.


Category: Coffeehouse

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One Response to Feminine Plastique

  1. Hit Coffee » Inconsideration says:

    […] l @ 1:05 pm

    I’ve mentioned before that we live in a basement apartment with a shared washer/dryer. I’ve also mentioned that the Cranstons have a 19-year old daughter named Becca. […]

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