have sniffed at her for not doing so.
There is no reason why she should wear clothes at home. The house is
clean-not somewhat clean, but clean-and comfortable. The floor is warm to bare feet;
there are no unpleasant drafts, no cold walls. All dust is precipitated from the air
entering this house. All textures, of floor, of couch, of chair, are comfortable to
bare skin. Sterilizing ultra-violet light floods each room whenever it is
unoccupied, and, several times a day, a “whirlwind” blows house-created dust from
all surfaces and whisks it out. These auto services are unobstrusive because
automatic cut-off switches prevent them from occurring whenever a mass in a room is
radiating at blood temperature.
Such a house can become untidy, but no~ dirty. Five minutes of
straightening, a few swipes at children’s fingermarks, and her day’s housekeeping is
done. Oftener than sheets were changed in Mr. McKinley’s day, this housewife rolls
out a fresh layer of sheeting on each sitting surface and stuffs the discard down
the oubliette. This is easy; there is a year’s supply on a roll concealed in each
chair or couch. The tissue sticks by pressure until pulled loose and does not
obscure the pattern and color.
You go into the family room, sit down, and remark on the lovely day. “Isn’t
it?” she answers. “Come sunbathe with me.”
The sunny patio gives excuse for bare skin by anyone’s standards; thankfully
she throws off the robe and stretches out on a couch. You hesitate a moment. After
all, she is your own grandchild, so why not? You undress quickly, since you left
your outer wrap and shoes at the door (only barbarians wear street shoes in a house)
and what remains is easily discarded. Your grandparents had to get used to a
mid-century beach. It was no easier for them.
On the other hand, their bodies were wrinkled and old, whereas yours is not.
The triumphs of endocrinology, of cosmetics, of plastic surgery, of figure control
in every way are such that a woman need not change markedly from maturity until old
age. A woman can keep her body as firm and slender as she wishes-and most of them so
wish. This has produced a paradox:
the United States has the highest percentage of old people in all its two and a
quarter centuries, yet it seems to have a larger proportion of handsome young women
than ever before.
(Don’t whistle, son! That’s your grandmother-)
This garden is half sunbathing patio, complete with shrubs and flowers, lawn
and couches, and half swimming pool. The day, though sunny, is quite cold-but not in
the garden, and the pool is not chilly. The garden appears to be outdoors, but is
not; it is covered by a bubble of transparent plastic, blown and cured on the spot.
You are inside the bubble; the sun is outside; you cannot see the plastic.
She invites you to lunch; you protest. “Nonsense!” she answers, “I like to
cook.” Into the house she goes. You think of following, but it is deliciously warm
in the March sunshine and you are feeling relaxed to be away from the city. You
locate a switch on the side of the couch, set it for gentle massage, and let the
couch knead your troubles away. The couch notes your heart rate and breathing; as
they slow, so does it. As you fall asleep it stops.
Meanwhile your hostess has been “slaving away over a hot stove.” To be
precise, she has allowed a menu selector to pick out an 800-calory, 4-ration-point
luncheon. It is a random-choice gadget, somewhat like a slot machine, which has in
it the running inventory of her larder and which will keep hunting until it turns up
a balanced meal. Some housewives claim that it takes the art out of cookery, but our
hostess is one of many who have accepted it thankfully as an endless source of new
Page 134
menus. Its choice is limited today as it
has been three months since she has done grocery shopping. She rejects several
menus; the selector continues patiently to turn up combinations until she finally
accepts one based around fish disguised as lamb chops.