Today, I tackled my own ironing. Not much these days, but though it’s an infrequent chore I still put it off to the dry cleaner or housekeeper as much as possible. Once started I got to thinking. There’s something about ironing. After you get into it, ironing is actually therapeutic. I should do it more often.
I remember my grandmother made sure washing and ironing was always done perfectly and promptly. Stiffly starched, done herself, everyone looking tidier than I ever look. And with few modern conveniences. She only stopped to prepare dinner (we always had a big dinner, after a big breakfast and a big lunch). She even ironed the pillowcases and my grandfather’s underwear! She taught me how to iron, and I loved helping when we stayed at her house. Now that I’m all grown up, the chore isn’t mine very often, but today I did it with vigor…I admired and proudly hung all the freshly ironed clothes on which I had worked for hours.
Fabrics have changed; I almost exclusively wear cotton, and my Lululemon leggings (every day at home is more casual than casual Friday, for me) aren’t to be ironed or creased. Even much of my dress-up attire is made of new wonder fabrics that look as fresh as a daisy after the dry cleaner gives them back to me. Ironing has sort of become extinct in my beach lifestyle.
Though something I didn’t look forward to today, ironing does have its rewards. As I took away the wrinkles I contemplated the hurts, irritations and anxieties of my life and imagined smoothing them away with a wide swath of the hot iron. Regardless of this week’s stress or the pain from any yesterday, I’m in control. The freshly ironed blouse stays smooth until it’s worn again, and while my road will always have some bumps for a little while everything will hang in my closet wrinkle-free…if only the emotional wrinkles of my life could be so easily ironed out.