I love to iron; accent on love.
If you've ever provided room and board for me, chances are I've asked you for an iron and ironing board for the next day's clothes. If you'll provide a room in the future, chances are I'll give the same request. I've had a fascination for ironing since middle school, where I would iron my T-shirts on the weekends. I am confident this had nothing to do with the fact that I had few friends during this time. I think.
I have ironed shirts for friends while rooming with them (a la Mike Holmes). I have ironed for Lindsay. I've tried to teach her the secrets of a wrinkle-free lifestyle. I iron denim jeans, on a regular basis. I have ironed shorts, also on a regular basis. T-shirts, dress shirts, and even some tablecloths for one of Lindsay's fab parties, it doesn't matter, I love it. It may just be my hatred for wrinkles, I've considered that as the source of all this. I have a problem, I know.
Who doesn't like to put their arms into a fresh pair of warm sleeves though? Ironing is like mowing the lawn for clothes. There's instant results. Wrinkle there on the collar, oh wait, a few quick iron swipes and its nothing more than a garment memory. Truly, a wrinkle is no match for the searing heat and steam. When you wield a hot iron, you wield unstoppable power over the effects of the hang-dry. Consider it.
It's all quite ridiculous though. There are countless people in the world with 1 or 2 articles of clothes to their name at most. I've reflected on this lately and it's left me with the question "Why do you value the things you value?" Hmmm. More to come on this.
Confession #7, the final one, for now- I love to iron; accent on love
from wilmore, with Love.