I decided on Saturday night that I was going to face the facts. A world without dryers is a world that requires ironing in order to show up at work and retain the respect of my colleagues and co-workers.
(With a combination of quick re-heats in the dryer and gallons of Downy wrinkle-release spray, I'm not sure I wielded an iron in the past 5 years of independent living. )
Inspired by an impromptu apartment cleaning--in honor of the fact that all 4 of my roommates were miraculously home at the same time--I decided to bite the bullet and iron all of my work shirts in one go.
Our apartment came complete with a 1960's iron--no steam function, just 15 pounds of don't-mess-with-me-metal, the kind of iron that the term "blunt object" undoubtedly was coined for in murder trials. I'd say that I hate the iron, but the truth is, it's more that I'm afraid of it.
And, ok, ok, I managed to burn a shirt with it a few weeks ago, so I have a small grudge against it and was eager to vindicate myself. The iron apparently wasn't ready to settle the score--no, it's angling for a full-on blood feud.
I finished the first shirt without incident. To be honest, I was a little proud of it.
I moved onto the second shirt, meanwhile chatting along happily with my roommates.
I should mention that I wasn't wearing pants.
In one innocent moment, looking up to laugh along with something a roommate said, I felt the sudden sizzling of flesh. Yes, right there on my hip bone, a mere inch or two away from my last burn in Egypt (a chemical burn from 2 years ago), an errant motion of my hand had pressed the side of the 5-ton iron against my leg.
Two days later, it's turned into a blistered, welted purple stripe of shame. I saw this as proof that I was never intended to be a domestic woman. My roommates insist that this is proof you should do your ironing with pants on. Potatoes, Patatas.
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