At a young age, I was scarred by the iron. Not literally scarred, as in, I burned myself, but scarred in the figurative sense. I’d gotten the iron out (without permission, what?!) as I’d wanted to iron my favorite dress: my beautiful…white...lace... dress. Well, just so you know, hot irons and lace don’t play well together, come to find out.
I remember running, crying to my mother, bringing her back into the room where the lace had melted onto the face of the hot iron, half expecting her to be mad, but she wasn’t. I’m sure she wasn’t exactly happy about it, but she was probably more relieved that I hadn’t gotten hurt or burned the house down, and she also seemed empathetic; I was pretty upset.
Maybe it was that moment from my past that instilled unto me this colossal dislike for ironing. After all, why would I risk such heartbreak when I can just toss a shirt into the dryer and have the dryer fight the battle for me?! It’s as though I can defeat the dark forces of Wrinkle Kingdom without having to step foot onto the battlefield!
I love getting wrinkles out of clothes without having to get the iron down. I just love it.