I wore my favorite blazer the other day. My friend complimented me on its look.
“But look here,” I complained. “I recently washed the jacket, but the lapel is sitting funny and not lying flat.”
“Try ironing it,” my dear friend advised.
Was She for Real?
She was trying to be helpful, but I was aghast.
I vaguely recall ironing. Yes, I believe it was back in 1993. That’s when I put a stop to that bad habit.
The Ironing Room
Actually, I do recall ironing very well, thank you. We had an entire room in our house devoted to ironing. My mom put that loathsome task at the top of our chore list:
“I want you to go downstairs and spend one hour in the Ironing Room.”
You heard correctly. We had an official Ironing Room (hence the upper case letters here).
It was a small room in our basement, located just off the laundry area. It had one tiny window, filled in with glass blocks. In reality, it had once been used as the maid’s bedroom for the home’s first owners.
In fact, that’s how we referred to it when we first moved in: The Maid’s Room. When we'd nonchalantly mention the Maid's Room in passing, our friends thought we were rich folks with a live-in staff.
The Poor Girl
I couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping there, away from everyone… not even remotely connected with the rest of the upstairs living quarters. I took pity on someone I never knew.
I hated that room. The floor was cold. The window offered no view. I envisioned spiders popping out of the closet, or worse… a lost mouse scampering by. But I had to stay in that lonely room until my time was up and I was allowed to run back upstairs to the bright kitchen.
Plus, I was never very good at smoothing out the clothes. The iron was heavy, and trying to perfect a sharp crease was all but impossible for me. Once I ironed over a t-shirt logo and the colors immediately became scorched onto the flat surface of the iron.
Mom was not happy.
So those are the dreadful scenes that pop in my head when I think of ironing. [Shudder]
I still recall when I finally released myself from the unhappy chore. A shirt I had purchased on vacation had a tongue-in-cheek notice on its label: WARNING: Ironing this shirt is unlawful.
! ! ! ! ! ! !
To be honest, I took this caveat seriously for several days before I realized it was a joke. I was a sick, sick woman.
And with that admonition, I vowed to try to live life without an ironing board.
I’m still doing well. I only iron for special occasions (which are dwindling at this stage in my life, so that’s helpful).
Next weekend I may pull the iron down from the top shelf in my closet and have a go at this beloved jacket of mine. It’s worth the effort.
But then I’m done for a while.
Because at this stage in my life, well-worn wrinkles work for me.
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