I am somewhere with my family. I am in a room and all the clothes I had packed are laid out on the bed. The is a young couple in the room, a man and a woman. The young man is pointing at my folded underwear, touching them and saying something to the woman. I like that he is touching my folded underwear, and want to hear his voice. I ask him what he is saying. He tells me he is saying that these are good underwear, that they don't make underwear like this anymore. I realize he is correct, and tell him so. I look at my underwear, which seem to be mostly in shades of fuschia and woven like boxer briefs. I notice that there is something stuck to the fabric. It's like tiny stones have formed along the front of the underwear, as if the underwear had been washed in mineral-heavy water and bits of calcium had hardened along the woven fabric. I try to pick the stones out of my best underwear, but notice that it leaves the bright fuschias faded and discolored. I wonder whether the stones have always been there, or if it's my mother's washing machine and the local water to blame.