Wrinkle-free

I do not know how to iron. Really, I don't.



I am the product of a very, very spoiled only child* household. As a result of this I never learned certain domestic skills, among them would be ironing. I grew up believing that God invented the Dry Cleaner for a purpose: ironing and those items of clothing with a label of "DRY CLEAN ONLY". I saw my mother ironing on occasion (on one of those occasions I, brain trust that I am, had to touch the iron) and I still carry the souvenir of that event on the 3rd knuckle of my index finger on my right hand. And, that is about the experience I'd had with ironing. My mother never taught me, she said, because then, maybe, I'd never have to actually do such a job.



Good try, mom. No cigar.



So, fast forward a decade or two, and here you have me: pathetic and helpless as a newborn mewling kitten with an iron.



Generally speaking, I try to purchase clothing items that do not have the dreaded 'DRY CLEAN ONLY' tag, or if I do, I try to buy those that I can magically whisk into my 'Dryel' cleaning bag to 'clean' and 'iron'. But, I find, as I get older and more selective about my clothing (truly, I'm a closet clothes horse held only in check by a fairly limited cash flow...) I am discovering items that require, well, frankly scream to be ironed.



So, that leaves me standing in my dining room, arms folded defiantly across my bosom, glaring at my nemesis: the iron and it's evil sidekick the ironing board. Yech.



Last night was one of those occasions where I whipped out my formidable foes and began the grueling and clumsy ballet of me trying to rid my new, very cute, white with black and tan pinstripe Capri's (and a couple of other items, just for good measure) of unsightly wrinkles. Damn my fickleness and vanity at refusing to wear wrinkled garments in public like a hung-over freshman fraternity boy.



Poor B.J. He's of absolutely no help, other than muttering a sympathetic "I never learned to iron, either..." Well, no, of course not. Your mother believed that God invented the Dry Cleaner for the same purpose as my mother--just yours dropped off Prada and Ralph Lauren, where my mother dropped off...things not with a designer label.



Our poor children. Being raised in a household with parents who are inept at basic, every-day domestic tasks. Will it be another generation who holds the Dry Cleaner with the esteem of their parents?



Hmm....



Does the local community college offer a 'basic domestic skills 101' course? Where do you learn how to iron if your mother never taught you? Are you left to suffer the mercy of rising Dry Cleaning costs? Or do you walk about looking like you're that Fraternity boy?



The mysteries of life continue to grow.

I continue to awkwardly dance my ballet of wrinkles, tête-à-tête with my nemesis: the iron.






*Technically, I am not an only child. However my brother, who is nearly 17 years my senior, moved out when I was two-years-old, leaving me more or less as an only child.