I like to iron. That may be an overstatement. I like wearing clothes that wrinkle and I like wearing them not wrinkled. But I also find the instant gratification of ironing nice. So, I iron.
Officially, I learned to iron the 7th or 8th grade, when I took home ec. But a woman named Gail taught me how to iron in real life. You know, when you don't have 3 different size ironing boards with 4 different pegs to make sure each collar and cuff and sleeve and leg is pressed just so. Instead you've got one ironing board (if you're lucky and aren't stretched out on the floor), one iron, and 15 minutes to get out the door.
Since Gail's tutelage, I have gotten good at ironing and yes, I suppose, I do enjoy it. And the other day, we were at the family's and I needed to iron my linen pants. The Hatchling was doing her homework. I was set up with the iron. She was amazed.
What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Was it difficult? Why didn't her mom iron? I answered them all as simply as I could (ironing, because my pants were wrinkled, not really but it did take practice, because her mom doesn't wear clothes that wrinkle as badly). It was a little surprising that I was the one she was seeing do this because her mom is way more domestic than I can ever dream of being. But, at the same time, ironing isn't her thing.
To say I taught the Hatchling how to iron is a huge overstatement. But I did talk her through what I was doing, and why I was doing it. And I passed along a little bit of information that maybe she'll use and remember in 30 years, the same way I remember that day at Gail's house.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
4 comments:
Your sister once told me "Our generation doesn't iron. I believed her because my daughters don't iron either.
The Army taught me to iron. Mom probably showed me the basics and I had the concepts down, but once you can iron the pleated pockets in the old BDUs you can iron anything. The problem is I generally figure my time is worth too much and I get most everything dry cleaned. But I'll still surprise a girl when she's trying to iron a top, failing miserably and I take over and hand her back a beautifully pressed garment a few minutes later.
When I was three my sister chased me with an iron and threatened to burn me. It wasn't even pugged in but I didn't know that. Innocent fun, right? Interesting how you get intergenerational relationship building and I get post traumatic stress disorder…
Ironing is a bit like painting a wall. You can see the results of your effort and it's gratifying.
Post a Comment