Iron

My mother taught me to iron- on towels. I had a toy iron and ironing board. The iron got warm, and I was given towels to iron and fold. I would use the small board with a real iron for the handkerchiefs, until I was taller. I was responsible for ironing my father's handkerchiefs. White ones. I was criticized if they were not done well. I didn't mind the job for itself, but I hated doing it for him, and for no actual purpose other than an alien aesthetic. But my mother was proud of having ironed 21 white shirts a week, seven each for my father and two brothers, when that was required. My father worked in a factory, but he wore a white shirt to and from, changing into overalls there. A priority that baffles me to this day. So much energy to so little effect. And that iron and board were a gift, a toy, for me. Worst Christmas present ever.

I was taught to iron. I would have to iron my gym t-shirts. All my pants and skirts and blouses, thankfully, not underpants or sheets, although I have heard of women who did. When I was given bras to wear, I was expected to iron them. Ridiculous and damaging to the elastic, I would sneak them into my drawer and lie about having ironed them, just as I would do with the t-shirts I only wore at school. I would not get out of ironing my father's shirts and pants, by that time a detested job. I had to do it well, both of them had no compunction about making me do it again. I was to have pride to do it right, what was going to happen if I could not iron well when I was out on my own?

So I can iron well. And I rarely iron anything. I would iron my army uniforms, minimally by the last year when I cared little. I would iron my nursing school uniforms, and then get an OR job where I had scrubs and threw them into the hospital laundry, and never have to do anything about my uniforms. I once pressed Hakama pants, the Japanese martial arts uniform trousers. Incredibly difficult, but I got them looking nice.

I do like taking wrinkled clothes and spraying them with starch, the steam iron smoothing out the mess and creating crisp, neat fabric. But only once in a while, for a special occasion. Like counting coins, or polishing silver, a special job, not anything to enjoy when it is a daily chore. I used to have my BDU uniforms cleaned and pressed with extra starch when I was in San Antonio, the only way to get away with wearing it more than one day in that heat. I still iron the occasional shirt or pair of pants, but rarely, and if ironed shirts become a requirement for D's job, I would gladly pay for the laundry to do them. I take only the most grudging kind of pride in a well pressed shirt. I do not consider D's dishevelment a personal disgrace for me, as my mother did if my father had a wrinkle.

So what was I taught, I that think that no education is wasted, and all experience useful? . Certainly not what was intended. Not to hold on to tight to standards that no longer apply, to question the standards I live by now. Pick my battles. Taking pride in a job for it's own sake- applied later to good charting.

Never iron naked.

Yeah, that'll do.