Word After Word

Laminating

I thoroughly enjoy a good lamination. 

A piece of paper, made into something you can carry around, prop up, grab out of a deep sack quickly, fling accurately, and wipe off—what greater joy is there in the world of paper?

When I laminate a lowly piece of paper, I feel I have made the sheet into Queen. As laminator, I’m a Kingmaker. I love laminating.

It’s been suggested to me by more than one person I invest in a personal laminator but this would be akin to buying wine by the case or cigarettes by the carton: it’s a signal one has gone around the bend. The phrase personal laminator disturbs. Though if you could safely be laminated, full body, like at a fair or something I would absolutely do it in a second, I’d love to be (organically free range) laminated.

I love the burning plastic smell, the melty feeling when it’s just still fresh, like a grilled cheese sandwich of see-through and paper; I love the way the edges are beady, spurling, frilling. In my early laminating days, I could not resist putting the lam-strings into my mouth.

Now I feel I have the laminating thing under control.