I sometimes pull a mom when I see my husband heading off to a meeting. "Are you going to wear that?" I ask.
He stops. Looks down. Gives me the look. His jacket and pants match. His shoes are shined. It's his shirt. It's wrinkled.
When he tells me (as he always does) that he'll keep his jacket on, that no one will see, I make him promise one thing: "Don't tell them you're married."
See, I figure that a good wife would iron her husband's shirts. And my failure to do so makes me a bad wife. Now, I love my husband dearly and would, if he asked, give ironing a try. But sadly, I am -- and always have been a wash-and-wear gal.
When I was little, say 6 ot 7, I had my first unfortunate ironing lesson: I was going to help my Gramma Nana iron. She set it up like it would be lots of fun. Got me a little ironing board and a little iron (that didn't get really hot). Nana would press daddy's shirts, I would do the handkerchiefs.
I watched her lay the shirt on board, sprinkle water from a special shakey bottle and glide the iron expertly. The iron hissed. I liked that. "This makes it go faster," she said, using the shakey bottle again.
I tried to copy her. I spread a hanky on my board, but my iron didn't glide, it didn't hiss and the wrinkles didn't go away. In fact, not much happened. With a logic that's still haunts me today, I figured if a little water helped a little, a lot of water would help a lot. So I stuck my hanky under the faucet. Oops. The hanky had to go back in the dryer and I had to start all over again. After that, when Nana wanted to play, I'd opt for a round or two of Candyland, the lamest game on the planet, rather than ironing.
I've got a real iron now, though I rarely use it. I tend to do more harm that good with it. So I've developed some coping strategies:
