I learned to iron while still in grade school. My mother sent me to a Catholic school where uniforms were required. And since she was a working mother in the days when she worked six days a week, it seemed reasonable to give me household tasks to do on Saturdays. Ironing wasn’t the only one, but it’s one that has stayed with me for seventy years.
It’s rather pathetic, actually. Fabrics have changed; fashions have changed; few people iron anymore. And the general public doesn’t chime in on whether someone walking the red carpet has a wrinkle in his or her outfit.
I understand this. I wish I could let go. But I really like wearing pressed clothing, even the kind that says “wash and wear.” There’s something about crisp lines, collars that lay how they’re supposed to, sleeves that crease at the shoulder seam.
Recently, I met a neighbor who feels as I do. In fact, we met because she said to me at a cocktail party, “Your blouse is lovely; it’s wrinkle free.” To which I replied, “Thanks, I press everything I wear because I like the feel of pressed clothing.” I expected some kind of shocking reaction, which is what I normally get.
Instead, she smiled and said, “I press everything too.”
There is a sweatshirt out there that says, “Irony . . . the opposite of wrinkly.” This new friend and I need to get one. And wear them proudly.
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