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Wrinkle Free, Almost.

Ironing is not high on my list. I own an iron but I rarely use it.

Do you own an iron? Wait. What I really want to know is do you iron? 

I will go to almost any length to avoid ironing. In this wash-n-wear world, ironing for me happens on an “as needed” basis not as a regular task. Back in the day, Monday was washing day, Tuesday was ironing day. I know a few women who still follow that chore regime.

Not in my world.

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Erma Bombeck once said ironing was her second favorite chore. Right behind hitting her head on the top bunk until she fainted. I come closer to her mindset then the Tuesday crowd. I like to think of Tuesday as golf day.

I own an iron, but I rarely use it. I also own an ironing board–a very dusty one I’m sure since it resides in a small slot between two open racks of shelving in my garage. It seemed a perfectly logical place to stash the board when I moved in two years ago. My closet space is limited and the slot was empty.

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My love/hate relationship toward ironing goes back a ways.

When I was thirteen, my mother decided it was time for me to learn to iron. I went to parochial school and wore a uniform. Part of the uniform was a white blouse with short sleeves and an open collar. The dress code stated girl’s blouses had to be starched. There was no spray starch back then.

After washing my blouse, I dipped it in a bowl of starch mixture and then rolled it in a towel. The goopy concoction gunked up the bottom of the iron. By the time the blouse was done, it could stand up by itself. Oh, and when I wore it, it scratched my neck and the upper part of my arms.

Years later I went to nursing school. More uniforms. More starchy collars and cuffs, but I didn’t have to iron them. I did have to iron my cap though. It resembled a covered wagon (it symbolized pioneers in nursing) and ironing it coated with extra heavy starch was complicated and time consuming.

Still later, I discovered that married life and motherhood involved ironing. I would wait until the basket overflowed and then iron myself into a Zen state watching soap operas desperately trying to convince myself ironing was therapeutic.

I hated ironing, but I liked the look and smell of freshly pressed clothes. I ironed napkins (I also hate paper napkins), and as I recall, as a newlywed I think I even ironed our sheets and pillowcases a few times.

Ironing shirts was another story. Doing it well is almost an art. Just ask Martha Stewart.

I ironed a mean shirt, but resented doing it – especially, since in no time at all, it needed ironing again. Eventually, I wised up. I took dress shirts to the cleaners – light starch on hangers – and stopped buying ones that needed ironing.

For things I categorize as “ironables”, I spin them in the dryer for a few minutes to get out the worst wrinkles and then hang them to dry. Several quick shakes followed by hand smoothing (and a few wooden clothespins in strategic places) works like a charm. No need for an iron.

Except...

Every now and then, I let myself buy something that breaks the rule – like the outfit I bought at Crazy Heart at 257 Castro St. I love it! It looks great, it’s comfortable and it’s fun. It’s my new “go to” outfit for the summer. Unfortunately, my wrinkle proofing method isn’t good enough, so my neglected iron has a new lease on life.

But not my ironing board. Hauling that monster in and out of its narrow slot is too much work. I’ll use a towel on the floor for those stubborn wrinkles. Awkward, yes, but it gets the job done,

Mostly, I use my iron for perler bead projects with my grandchildren–infinitely more fun than ironing shirts!

Now if I could just find a wrinkle proofing method for the rest of me!

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