IRONING

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I never find the time to iron.  I don’t mind ironing.  I sort of like it.  It is my alone time when I can smooth out things in my mind while smoothing out the wrinkles.  I love to see, smell, and feel a smooth, clean, hot piece of material under my fingers.  It’s one of those satisfying jobs that gives visible results – even if nobody else notices, and even though you have to do it again next wash day.

Unfortunately, I don’t do it again next wash day.   I shove it into my hiding cabinet above the washing machine and tell myself I’ll do it right after breakfast.  Then lunch.  Then supper.  Then I say Saturday would be a good day.  Then Sunday.  And so on.

Last night I kissed my daughter good night and spied her un-ironed shirt that had been in my hiding cabinet.  It was spread flat on the floor with two large books on top.  Seemed like she thought she could press it overnight.  Let her think that.  If I enlightened her, I’d have to do it right then. 

It must not have worked because she didn’t wear it to breakfast.  I found it in a corner of her room after she left for school.  I decided to leave it there.  It could wait there just as well as in the hiding cabinet.  Perhaps she would get inspired and actually iron it herself.  We mothers do have our fantasies, you know.

As I pondered the idea, I heard the dryer turn off.  I ran to grab my son’s Tae Kwon Do uniform and fold it before the wrinkles set in.  I fantasized about ironing it.  (And husbands think we fantasize about other things when they’re away!)  The Tae Kwon Do instructor would have ironed it.  In fact, when my son forgot to stuff it into his bag after class last week, his instructor took it home, washed, and ironed it.  What a guy.  (Now there’s a fantasy.)

Maybe I’ll iron that uniform after all.  Right after supper tonight.