I've brought my iPad with me on the train in the hopes that I'd be able to turn out some amazing entry that's profound, introspective and thought-provoking, but James is sitting across from me in a wrinkled shirt. It's like he's absolutely clueless that I detest wrinkled clothing. He's not. He knows I can't stand when he wears a rumpled shirt. Or when the bed sheets have such wrinkles that I lay awake at night wishing I could pull them off of him and give them a thorough ironing. He knows. He's watched my tortured agony when I'm forced to accept that ironing our sheets is not the best use of my time and I must grit my teeth and make the bed "as is."
With all of this knowledge at his disposal, he still chose to pull the freshly-laundered-but-not-yet-meticulously-ironed shirt from the hanger, and believe it was a wise move. Foolish, foolish James.
Point of Interest: Martha Stewart has an entire ROOM in one of her houses devoted to ironing. She has huge machines that iron sheets. I think I've mentioned this somewhere before. She's my ironing hero, second to my dad, who taught me how to iron (Sorry dad, Martha has a whole room for ironing. You taught me to iron in the laundry room - true, that is a room, but with multiple uses so it just isn't the same). James clearly doesn't have an ironing hero...if he did, he wouldn't commit such a heinous crime against good taste.
God, and he won't stop talking so that I can finish this before I lose Internet connection. C'mon James! Yeesh.
Eugene, my boyfriend knows my feelings about wrinkles.
ReplyDeleteI live in a shoe box and therefore refuse to iron cause it always results to pulling out the baby ironing board and hunching over it on the floor or cleaning off the counter in the kitchen. So, no dice.
I will, however, 100% pay top Dollar (in your case, Stirling) and drop off ANYTHING that needs to be met with an iron at our trusty dry cleaners for a nice starchy press. I, in addition to loving ironing, am a hot slut for spray starch. Mmm. Stiff.