I have a lifelong aversion to ironing. It started when I was about 3. Mama killed my imaginary friend “Cowboy” with an iron. He was sitting on the ironing board minding his own business when she picked up the hot iron and set it right on top of him. Thank goodness he didn’t suffer, but it took Mama a while to calm me down and figure out what all the hysteria was about. It was an accident – she said she didn’t see him – but the trauma was inflicted. I haven’t liked irons or ironing since.
Anything associated with ironing I avoided if possible, but not all of my experiences were tragic. I remember Mama was ironing the day she told me and my younger brother that she was expecting another baby. I was 10 at the time and he was 7. I wanted a baby sister; he wanted a puppy. We got a baby brother.
Ironing used to be a common daily or weekly chore. If you’ve ever watched any reruns from the ‘50s and ‘60s, you’ve seen actual ironing in progress on many shows. On “I Love Lucy,” she always made even boring chores seem funny. My sisters, on the other hand, considered ironing work, not fun. Everything we wore back then seemed to need “pressing.” Blouses were the worst, taking extra time for the sleeves and collars.
I observed plenty of ironing when I was growing up, but declined to participate unless forced. Some of my friends’ moms would actually iron the sheets and pillowcases – I was glad Mama wasn’t one of those fanatics. It can always be worse, I suppose.
I was so happy when it became fashionable (or at least acceptable) to wear clothes that were slightly rumpled. It was a look I could thoroughly embrace. Mama called it “sloppy” and wouldn’t let me get away with it on Sundays. We had to look “decent” for the Lord’s Day and I tend to agree, especially when I see some of the attire folks wear to church nowadays.
I have to admit, I’m glad that clothes don’t matter as much as they once did when it comes to Sunday services, because I am way more comfortable in my dress slacks and boots. I don’t think Mama would approve, though. She always looked like a million bucks on Sundays. Even if she was wearing the same dress she’d worn just a few weeks ago, it was clean and ironed.
When I got married, we were gifted an iron and ironing board at our wedding shower. I managed to be gracious and thank the sweet old soul who thought it was a wonderful idea, even though it wasn’t on our registry. When we moved into our house (where we still live), they promptly disappeared into a closet, where they remained until about 15 years later. My oldest daughter was 12 and digging in said closet for some art supplies when she unearthed the forgotten gift. Holding it aloft, she asked, “What’s this?”
I started laughing, and then was slightly chagrined that I had raised a daughter who was clueless about what was once an important chore. So I dug deeper into the closet and fished out the clunky ironing board, still clad in a new/old flowered pad, and proceeded to demonstrate both pieces of mysterious equipment. Unlike me, she was fascinated and asked if she could use them. After the usual precautions on hot appliances and long cords, I gladly turned them over to her.
After that, no article of clothing was safe from her enthusiastic use of the steam iron. She asked for help occasionally when baffled by a French cuff or a hem that refused to stay straight, but I was working from a scarred memory, so I wasn’t much help. She figured most of it out on her own.
Several years later, she met and fell in love with a young man that wore starched oxford cloth shirts and creased-to-perfection khakis – all pressed and ready to wear by the family maid. He looked very dapper. But it soon became apparent that my daughter’s ironing skills did not match those of the maid. The starch in his shirts lasted longer than the marriage.
Today, she has a fella who is happy if his shirts come out of the dryer mostly wrinkle-free. There is something to be said about lowering your expectations … at least in some cases.
