Er…make that, ironing night. Which is way better, because I can have wine. I try not to drink wine in the morning when it’s avoidable.
Ironing and I have not previously had a pleasant relationship. In high school, my winning smile and generous mother took care of it for me. In college, I accidentally burned a hole in the rug in my dorm room ironing a pair of pants. Yes, I did.
But the best story of Ironing and Me is the time when, on the night before my interview for my last teaching job, I burned a hole in my dress. Yes. I did that, too. Now, under normal circumstances, one would just consult the closet for another dress. However, I was still in grad school in Charlottesville and had flown down specifically for the interview, so my other options included my pajamas and my pajamas.
Luckily, I was staying with Lee’s parents, so at 10 o’clock that night, I knocked on his mom’s bedroom door crying and asked to borrow a cardigan. Oh, the shame. We’d been dating for maybe a year at that point, and I’d visited only once or twice before. It was awful, obviously. But the cardigan did miraculously cover the hole, and I did get the job, despite my best efforts otherwise.
Anyway, after that I think I would have been well within my rights to never iron again. And trust me, I haven’t done much. My sweet mama even ironed Lee’s pants last time we were there.
But I’m on a new life plan. One that includes, among other things, a weekly ironing day. I think it will be good for me: making peace with ironing. If I can make peace with ironing, I can make peace with anything.