Those who have known me for a long time know that I have this thing about ironing. A love affair of sorts. It's a long history, me and my iron. I started as a young girl when that became my job and I took it seriously (though to this day the idea of ironing blue jeans is utterly ridiculous to me...but my father insisted). It became the running joke between me and Pippa those high school summer days over the phone:
Me: "Hey Pip, whatcha doin'?"
Pippa: "Cleaning the kitchen. You?"
Me: "Ironing."
On any given day, the above exchange was likely to have occurred at least once. Of course I was always ironing - there are a lot of clothes for a family of six and of course we all loved cotton. I am just grateful we weren't linen-lovers. That stuff is hard to iron. Mom wasn't intent that I iron sheets, either. I'm grateful for that. So I took the whole ironing gig with me. And when I met my future in-laws, JoJo introduced me to the iron that ends all irons...the ROWENTA. It's the Rolls Royce for domestic goddesses, if you ask me. I was fortunate enough to procure one following our nuptials, and it was as if I'd been reacquainted with an old friend. I'd been attached to that thing for years, even when the cord blew up on me once (no injuries for me, but it was rather entertaining for Jenn who was on the phone with me at the time). My Rowenta saw me through so many things - the hurried rush of the last minute pants pressing for hubby, the struggles to get fold lines out of old tablecloths from my grandmother, a perfect press for the blouse before a big presentation. My poor iron had suffered many accidental bumps and drops from my ironing board, but only recently did I have to lay her to rest, and purchase a new one. I miss my old Rowenta. Sure, my new one is just as grand, with some lovely new features that make ironing a breeze. But your first really good iron is like your first car. Ok, perhaps not for everyone else, but that's what it was like for me.
And then I had to travel quite a bit. The one thing that keeps me linked to my domestic callings had to be relinquished to *gasp* the drycleaners. I felt like I was betraying a trusted friend! The good news is, I got over it. I have to admit, leaving a pile of wrinkled clothes by your front door on Monday and by Thursday they reappear all clean and neatly pressed is rather indulgent. But there is something comforting about me and my iron. So as my travel wound down, I started putting less in the drycleaning pile and more in the "I'll do it myself" pile, which languished for a few weeks. This past Sunday, however, was a banner day for me and my Ms. Rowenta. We went to town and if it was made of cloth and within 5 feet of me, it got ironed (I did draw the line at clothing actually being worn). The closet rod is now empty, and freshly pressed clothes are put in their proper place. All the laundry is done, too, and folded. It will be at least two days before it starts over again. AHHHHHHH, bliss.
I have failed as a mother
6 years ago
