Melodrama Mondays - The Iron Versus Me

Something occurred to me last night as I was ironing my husband's shirts for another work week. I had actually ironed twice within the last month or so. Twice! A miracle! I yelled this fact to Jeremy, who was in the kitchen preparing our gourmet dinner of sautéed onions with polska kielbasa and our favorite: out of the box Mac 'n Cheese.


"You must love me a lot" was his reply. And I do, because I hate ironing. I hate ironing like I hate people who have pets and don't spend time with them. I hate ironing like I hate corrupt politicians and nasty English peas. I. Hate. Ironing. I do everything in my power to avoid ironing at all costs. At any cost. I specifically buy clothes that are iron-proof, i.e. silky fabrics which somehow dry with no wrinkles. These blouses and dresses are my saviour. They keep me away from the dreaded iron and ironing board with ease, and I love them for it.


Jeremy's clothes don't get by as easily without ironing. For some reason they don't make a lot of men's clothes in that rayon/whatever blend that makes my shirts so fundamentally fabulous. Guess it's not a very "masculine" kind of fabric. Whatever. In an effort to avoid having to iron Jeremy's clothes, I hang up as much as possible. OR I hop on the dryer as SOON as it's done so I can whip out his pants and shirts before they have a chance to wrinkle up. Trust me, I'm the queen of avoiding the iron.

Evil Iron of Doom

Unfortunately, last night, the iron and I had to meet again. The shirt that I needed to wear for an event at work today was wadded up in the bottom of one of my dresser drawers. Yesterday afternoon, I rummaged through the drawers and pulled it out. I shook it thinking that somehow, miraculously, the shaking motion would make all of those set-in, old-as-hell wrinkles just magically disappear. Yeah, not so much. I would have to face my old nemesis.


Whenever I do have to iron, I try to make it as productive an ironing session as possible so that I won't have to iron again for awhile. I pulled out some of Jeremy's shirts that weren't saved from the dryer in time to avoid wrinkling. I ironed. And ironed. And ironed some more. I ironed THREE whole shirts. I hated every minute of it.


But anyway, back to loving Jeremy. The last time I ironed within the last month was for his recent job interview. I spent what seemed like hours getting his shirt and pants perfectly creased and crisp. I was so proud of his interview outfit that I was tempted to take a picture (not of it on him but on the hangers looking perfectly unwrinkled), but I managed to refrain. That might have been a little weird.


To be perfectly honest, I would probably never iron if it weren't for Jeremy (even though the rare occasion does come up when I need to iron for myself). I don't want to be sappy, because I hate sappy, but I do a lot of things (like: eat Subway, watch hours worth of video game-playing, listen to Japanese rock music) just because I love Jeremy. So I suppose I should add ironing to that list, too. But all of it is worth it, because he's a pretty dorky loveable dorkily loveable great guy, and I'm so thankful that:


1) We met on the internet.
2) He moved across the country for me, from California to Georgia with little more than a picture of me to go by.
3) We got married. (Some stuff happened in between these of course but that's the gist of it.)


All of that trumps ironing any day of the week. Even on Mondays.


PS - Do any of you actually enjoy ironing? If so, can I mail my wrinkled clothes to you?


PPS - Because I feel that I cannot truly express to you in words how much I hate ironing, I will leave you with this picture. When I iron, I similarly hold the back of my hand to my face in complete exasperation. It is a pitiful thing indeed.

Woe is us all.
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