Despite an early exposure to ironing (Santa left me an ironing board when I was just a toddler), I have never liked it. In fact, I’ve done whatever I could to avoid it.
I’ve owned an iron since I was married, but I didn’t buy an ironing board until sometime after I had two kids. I remember buying it, thinking everyone should have an ironing board, but knowing I didn’t really want one. A towel spread out on a bed or counter had always been adequate.
What brought this topic to mind was finding a picture of myself ironing a shirt the day before my wedding. I found an envelope of snapshots taken the weekend of our marriage. I know I’ve seen some of these pictures before, but I had totally forgotten them. I didn’t remember the photo of me ironing.
There are only two times in my life that I have agreed to iron my husband’s shirt—and only once that I actually did it. That was the day before we were married, Friday, November 25, 1977.
He said he needed his dress shirt ironed before we went to the rehearsal dinner. So I agreed to do it. This photo was taken in my parents’ basement, where I set up my mother’s ironing board and went at it.
I must have done an acceptable job, because he wore the shirt to the rehearsal dinner.
The other time I agreed to iron his shirt was Friday, May 10, 1985. How do I remember that date? Well, the day is memorable for many reasons.
I had spent that week in an executive development program in Lawrence, Kansas, with other managers and professionals at Hallmark Cards. I left Lawrence about noon on May 10, 1985, to go to my obstetrician’s office. I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant. After I got home, I called my husband to let him know I’d made it back. We were scheduled to go to a social event sponsored by his law firm that evening. He asked me to iron his shirt. I sighed, but said I would.
Then I went into the family room to lie down on the couch. After all, I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant, and had an evening event to attend. And a shirt to iron.
As I lay on the couch resting, my water broke. Contractions started immediately.
I called my husband again and told him I would not be ironing his shirt.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because we’re having a baby tonight instead.”
What will you do to get out of ironing (or other detested tasks)?