When I moved into my first apartment in college, my dad took me shopping for the household things I would need. Among those things, he bought me my first iron and ironing board.
On average, I’m guessing I ironed once a month or so throughout my college days, a shirt or blouse here, some khaki pants there.
When Hubby and I got married, my ironing graduated to closer to once a week. I would send Hubby off to teach school in freshly pressed shirts and pants, feeling a certain sense of accomplishment at his lightly starched collars…and at the money we weren’t spending at the dry cleaners.
Over the last six or eight years, though, my ironing sessions became fewer and further between.
For myself, having a “real” job and wearing “real” clothes probably four out of five work days, I became quite cozy with the nice folks at the local dry cleaners.
And for Hubby? I discovered the amazing wonders of wrinkle-free fabrics…and I decided that, as a school teacher, the hubs didn’t need to be pressed to the nines every day.
In late 2008, I realized I literally hadn’t ironed in YEARS.
What prompted me to dust off the old ironing board???
The girls, of course.
My reintroduction came in the form of the dust ruffles for their cribs. I had painstakingly searched for just the perfect bedding, and I was anxious to set up their nursery. I meticulously washed everything, only to find the dust ruffles come out quite wrinkled. That wouldn’t do, of course.
Six months pregnant with twins, I dragged out the iron board and reacquainted myself with my iron. I think I had to take a break between dust ruffle #1 and dust ruffle #2, but by the end of the afternoon, I had two beautifully pressed bed skirts.
Over the past two years, I’ve gotten out my ironing board on a number of occasions.
Hubby still wears wrinkle-free pants and lots of knit shirts. And absent my “real” job, I rarely wear “real” clothes. My rare trips to the dry cleaner are mini-reunions with the nice folks I used to see once a week.
For their every-day wear, I’m mostly content to take the girls’ little dresses out of the dryer and lay them nice and flat across the bed…they’re just going to get spinach or salsa on them, anyway.
But every time we have the girls’ pictures taken, I find myself heating up the iron. I can’t have my girlies’ images preserved for all time in anything less but freshly pressed attire…and – at least in comparison to my hubby’s XL dress shirts – their itty bitty outfits are actually fun to iron.
(Did I just say "fun to iron"??? Gulp. Cue sweating as I recall having read "Stepford Wives" once upon a time...)