Little Prude and the Big Hill

This morning The Prude will change things up, just to keep from getting in a rut. Even a clean, dry, nice-smelling rut can get dull after awhile. In case you hadn’t noticed, Your Prude has a short attention span, which necessitates- say! Do you like how I have started referring to myself as ‘Your Prude’? Over the weekend I plan to delve into my psyche to figure out why I do it.  In the meantime please consider me your own personal Prude.

Today The Prude (I’ll alternate between THE and YOUR to keep things interesting) is going to tell a ‘Once Upon a Time’ story. Get as cozy as you can while reading a story from a computer screen and come along on this fanciful but true voyage.

                                                 The Little Prude and the Big Hill

Once upon a time lived a Little Prude who loved to read. Her Father, the Big Prude, was determined that his children would walk in his prudely ways. So he monitored all reading material for his young prudelings. Although he would allow The Prude to read Nancy Drew, The Happy Hollisters and Trixie Belden, he did so with a sigh. And then he would, with love and sincerity, place a pile of Grace Livingston Hill books in front of his Little Prude.

The Little Prude gobbled up Mrs. Hill’s romance novels. They were filled with action (a daring escape by a secretary in a high-rise office building) suspense (the daring spy work of a young housemaid during WWI) and heroism (daring young man rescues lovely young woman from the clutches of a villain. Who was leering).

One day Little Prude, not always the fastest finger on the trigger, finally noticed that, while the heroines of Mrs. Hill’s books may vary in their hair color (golden-red, red-bronze, bronzed-chestnut, chestnut-gold- NEVER platinum or ebony) they all had similar characteristics.

“All these heroines have dewy fresh complexions!” thought Little Prude. “They would not be caught dead in rouge or pancake powder or lipstick or- heaven forbid!- heavy eye shadow!  Their skin is pure white with a just a hint of a blush on the cheek. Put there by nature, which also graced their sweet little mouths with the sweetest tinge of rosy color!” The Little Prude thought with great guilt of the Bonne Bell strawberry lip smacker in her dresser drawer.

“And just look at their shell pink little nails!  Crimson nail polish would never sully those little moon-shaped fingertips!”  The poor Little Prude sat on her blue fingernails with the unfiled pinky. The ones her aunt said made her look like she was dead. But that matched her polyester pantsuit. And wondered how to achieve shell-pink nails that strong heroes loved to see resting modestly on their arms.

“Modestly! AH-HA!!” thought Little Prude, drawing a deep and cleansing breath. “All the heroines dress modestly! I am just like them!” To the Prude, the ‘70’s word ‘mod’ could only refer to ‘modest’. Little Prude (unbeknownst to most people) actually invented the concept of layering.

But the Little Prude’s happiness was to be short-lived. (Here ends part I. This storytelling format is hard work. We’ll go with the cliffhanger ending)

Please come back tomorrow for the sad ending of the story of ‘Little Prude and the Big Hill.’