Ironing

Ironing

I have never been able to iron without crying. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I always cry out of pity for myself. It starts with feeling sorry for myself that I “have” to do the ironing, even though Larry, my second husband did his own ironing when we were first married. I’m not generally much of a “poor me” person, but I just wallow in it if I’m ironing. Poor me who always had to iron the “rough-dry” clothes at home—Daddy’s work pants and things that didn’t get sprinkled. Things didn’t improve much when I got married and got a steam iron for a wedding present. This was in the days before permanent press fabrics and I had at least five days of outfits for both Dennis and me to iron each week. This brought on serious bouts of crying and sniffling and general gloom and doom.

I never was able to get over the crying when I iron, but I did manage to transition to permanent press, automatic dryer, dry cleaners, and commercial laundry for the bulk of what would otherwise have been me doing the ironing.

Perhaps early on ironing was a time and place where I could go on automatic pilot, leaving my mind free to wander to its dark places, places I normally would not allow myself to go. Later, I think it was a learned response, like Pavlov’s bell. Iron steams, I cry. Once the tears start, then I figure out something to cry about. It would always be something that wouldn’t be worth crying about, if I would have just heeded the message and fixed the problem, whatever I imagined it to be.

But, no, I just fixed the ironing, not the problems. And so, today, I do own an iron and an ironing board, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where they are.