Smoooothing Out

Like most people, I’m a selective procrastinator.  Although dirty dishes rarely remain piled in my kitchen sink, I always put off ironing.  It’s one of my least favorite chores.  I wait until a mound of clothes accumulates and stares me down like some wrinkly mammoth, and THEN I get out my miniature fold-up board and very cheap iron that sometimes steams (as it is supposed to) and sometimes doesn’t.

Let me clarify one small detail.  My iron has had an attitude problem for years. Without warning it can decide to hold its breath instead of breathing out puffs of hot steam, and in an unsuspecting moment, regurgitate a tablespoon or more of water all at once.  This exasperates me. I sigh, frown, pout, threaten to buy a new iron, and scold it with verbal lashings.  Then it behaves until the next time. 

In my opinion, ironing is a little like nursing a baby: it’s a necessary activity that requires more important and/or engaging activities to come to a screeching halt. However, when it is time to iron (or nurse), IT IS TIME.

My hubby will visit a funeral home tomorrow and thus wear nicer dress clothes than his usual jeans shorts and t-shirt, so of course the mound of clothes glared at me this morning with undeniable insistence.  It was TIME.  I resigned myself, tuned on public radio, and set about ironing the 14 garments that had piled up.  Melodious classical music in the background would surely keep me sane.

All of the clothes in the mammoth pile were old.  They’d been worn many times.  Wouldn’t it be great to have a wardrobe of nice new ones, I lamented?  Ones that didn’t need ironing?  As I handled each item yet once more, I remembered the time I wore this blouse on a certain memorable occasion, or when I purchased that one at Goodwill, giving it a second chance at a new life in a new closet and on a new body that frequented new places. 

Before long I realized things were looking better because my attitude was better.  I replaced a button on a pair of kaki pants without a hint of the typical irritation, and then overlooked the slightly frayed edges of the pockets while ironing them - a feature that usually annoyed me.

As the iron smoothed out the clothes on the way to their respective hangers, and the music infiltrated my house, something in me gradually smoothed out, too.  I was actually enjoying myself – the lack of interruption, the unhurried but steady pace, the warmth of the board beneath my hand.  I was grateful for the familiar items in our old wardrobes, and could identify with (and forgive) the wayward iron’s attitude problems.  After all, I’ve needed that kind of peace-making myself.