grrlTravels

shirts are not perfect rectangles, not by a long shot

It has taken me 41 years to realize that you can be bad at ironing.

Ironing strikes me as pretty mindless, on the opposite end of the spectrum from brain surgery. Clearly we are no longer sponging the clothes and then swiping at them with an iron plucked from the coals. How is it possible to be bad at such a technologically advanced, clearly defined, straightforward task? In fact I have a flashy new iron which is has a truly intimidating list of features. The new iron is impressive. And hot. It spits boiling water like a hissing steam train and burns me. That is not the worst of its trangressions.

I am having a homemaker-ish kind of day. I decide to iron in order to show K. how much I love him. You know how to make your man feel special—some days it's sex, some days steak (or salmon) (or tofu kabobs) (or whatever his favorite may be), and some days it's ironing. Today I am showing my love by uncovering the top of the dryer for the first time in months. I know, I know, you are thinking to yourself that K. won't even notice that the dryer is uncovered, much less appreciate that it is a testament to our undying affection. You are right. However I don't mind informing him of the fact (communication is key, remember!). That is the beauty of us—the give and take, the transfer of knowlege, the growing together, not apart. K., I LOVE YOU AND THE TOP OF THE DRYER IS NOW VISIBLE! YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.

All that to say that I felt good about the plan to iron. I take the first shirt. I begin to iron it. And I remember my lifelong commitment to never iron again. I don't actually believe in ironing. I went to high school and college in the 80s and embraced that whole preppy scene, including the rumpled, no-need-to-iron, wrinkles are cool mantra. I have clung stubbornly to it ever since.

I should know by now that I always begin to hate whatever I am ironing. My loathing for the act of ironing is projected on to the item until I cannot stand the sight of it. I put the shirt on the board. I admire the fabric. I begin to iron. As I become more frustrated my affection turns to distaste and my distaste to hate. What a hideous garment! What a loathsome pattern/color/fabric. Look at those idiotic buttons! How did I never notice them before? They are repulsive! How could I have ever worn this object, or allowed K. out of the house wearing such?

For a perfectionist like me ironing drives home the futility of life. The shirt has wrinkles. The iron is designed to remove the wrinkles. You apply the iron. You swoosh the iron back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. You arrange the shirt on the ironing board. You turn the shirt. You arrange it again. You pull the fabric this way and that, stretching and turning and straining and yanking. Forget about the sleeves. Sleeves are clearly the instrument of the devil. And in the end there are still wrinkles. They are there if you know where to look for them, hiding in the armpits and the collars and the interfacings. The wrinkles will not go away, no matter how hard you work.

However, I am committed in my love for K. and my plan to excavate the dryer. I attempt to distract myself. I decide to start a club for the un-ironers, an I EMBRACE MY WRINKLES club. A yahoo group. A Flickr group. A Web site. A movement. But I know I won't. There isn't the time, there isn't the energy, there isn't the insanity.

I decide to embrace the futility of life and have hot dogs for dinner. Hot dogs are the perfect reflection of meaninglessness.

The dryer is unencumbered. There are no hot dogs.

Posted by grrlTravels at November 2, 2007 4:52 PM