Please enjoy this previously published post from PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST…
I wore my favorite blazer to the office the other day. My co-worker complimented me on its look.
“Thanks, but look here,” I replied. “I recently washed this jacket, but the lapel is sitting funny and not lying flat as it should.”
“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 finally put a stop to that bad habit.
The Ironing Room
Actually, I do recall ironing very well, thank you very much. In my childhood home, we had an entire room 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,” she directed.
You heard correctly. We had an official Ironing Room (hence the upper case letters used 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 the past, it had 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, Poor Girl
I couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping in that room, away from everyone… not even remotely connected with the rest of the upstairs living quarters. I took pity on someone I never even knew.
I Dreaded That Room
The linoleum floor was cold. The window offered no view. I envisioned spiders popping out of the cedar closet. Or worse… a lost mouse scampering by.
Except I had to stay in that lonely room until my required time was up and I was allowed to scurry back upstairs to the bright kitchen.
Plus, I was never good at smoothing out the clothes in the right fashion. 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 hot iron.
Mom was not happy.
Redemption
So, there are the dreadful scenes that pop in my head when I think of ironing. [insert shudder here]
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.
Indeed, I was a sick, sick woman. And with that admonition, I vowed to try to live life without an ironing board.
Update…
I’m still doing well these days. 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 to have the lapels lay just right.
But then I’m done for a while. The iron will be returned to a high shelf in the closet, gathering dust along with my high-heeled shoes.
Because at this stage in my life, well-worn wrinkles work for me.
Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 