CONFESSIONS OF AN IRONING HATER

I have a confession to make about ironing. I hate it. I pretty much gave it up for lent years ago and never took the "bad habit" up again. 

Yes, I know that those of you who are younger are probably laughing and saying, "Ironing? What's that?". I've heard the same laughter about phone booths, jukeboxes on your table at the diner, and speaking to each other at the dinner table. 

I do own an iron and it does a great job when I occasionally use it to iron vintage linens I am selling, but the other day I pulled a nice clean pair of pants out of my drawer to find that the wrinkle demon had visited them overnight. 

This called for some serious action, rather than my normal inaction, to get out that iron so as not to embarrass myself in public.

Now the burning question was, just where is that iron? After a frantic ten-minute search, which I was afraid was going to cost me my coveted place in the early morning line to get into the thrift store before anyone else, I found it. 

After pulling at least five hundred things from under my bathroom sink, there it was buried at the back. 

My grandmother loved to iron. She would stand there in her housedress and iron for hours. She taught me to iron by letting me iron the washcloths. (What the heck was up with that? Who irons washcloths?)

I remember my mother had a sprinkle bottle that she used to sprinkle the clothes when she brought them in from the clothesline. She would then put the clothes into a big plastic bag until she pulled out her iron. She did this until I was nine when we moved to Canada and we got a clothes dryer. 

Moving my mother out of her beloved Kentucky to some "heathen country" was no easy task. I'm sure she told my dad that there was no way she was lugging in the laundry when it was 20 degrees below zero.

When my daughters were young I ironed all of their clothes. I would set up that big heavy ironing board and laboriously iron their ruffled dresses. 

I have been over all of that nonsense for many years. Now the ironing board that I take out, once in a blue moon, is a tabletop version that gathers dust tucked between the wall and the refrigerator. 

So the other day I pulled out the iron and the ironing board and dutifully ironed my wrinkled pants with my nice steam iron. I walked to my car, drove to the thrift store, and when I arrived looked down at my pants. Somehow the wrinkle demon had snuck into my car.

SIGH!!

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