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, nor is the pool chill. 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 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.
Your hostess takes the selected items from shelves or the freezer. All are
prepared; some are pre-cooked. Those still to be cooked she puts into her —
well, her “processing equipment,” though she calls it a “stove.” Part of it
traces its ancestry to diathermy equipment; another feature is derived from
metal enameling processes. She sets up cycles, punches buttons, and must
wait two or three minutes for the meal to cook. She spends the time
checking her ration accounts.
Despite her complicated kitchen, she doesn’t eat as well as her great
grandmother did — too many people and too few acres.
Never mind; the tray she carries out to the patio is well laden and
beautiful. You are both willing to nap again when it is empty. You wake to
find that she has burned the dishes and is recovering from her “exertions”
in her refresher. Feeling hot and sweaty from your nap you decide to use it
when she comes out. There is a wide choice offered by the ‘fresher, but you
limit yourself to a warm shower growing gradually cooler, followed by warm
air drying, a short massage, spraying with scent, and dusting with powder.
Such a simple routine is an insult to a talented machine.