There are many things in life my genes did not equip me to do. I will never wear normal sized gloves, hats, pants, or, I would assume, any sort of outfit consisting of the three (a pair of glhants?). When spring rolls around, I will spend two month being unable to breathe correctly. It is also a miracle that my poor hand-eye coordination has not caused me to trip and fall in front of a bus.
I am more than willing to blame these defects on my parents. After all, there is nothing I can do about my freakish fingers or allergic reaction to spring aside from a drastic scientific experiment.
There are, unfortunately, other gaps in talent that I cannot blame on anyone else. I can try and most likely will, but when it comes down to it, these are things I am just not good at.
Ironing is definitely one of those.
There are many times in life when a person needs to look there best and, much to my chagrin, someone in the past decided that people only look good when their clothing is smooth. Wrinkles are only for the slovenly and disheveled. If you were to have wrinkled clothing, you might as well walk into that event in pajamas. Oddly enough, even ironed pajamas are not considered appropriate in any situation. One would think they would at least be as acceptable as blue jeans.
Like a responsible person, I pulled out the ironing board to prepare for a meeting the next morning. I plugged in the iron and grabbed a nice blue shirt. Sure, it was a little wrinkled, but with a bit of work I would walk into that meeting looking like the cleanest and crispest person on the planet.
I began to iron. I smoothed wrinkle after wrinkle. I felt a little bad for the wrinkles. I mean, it wasn’t like they had done anything to me. I had never been insulted by these wrinkles, but here I was destroying them.
“May you rest in wrinkled peace,” I quietly whispered to them.
After a few minutes, I picked my shirt up. It was time to admire my handiwork and I was excited. I took a step back and looked.
…At a completely wrinkled shirt.
As a person who lacks many basic domestic skills, this did not seem right. I was pretty sure the entire purpose of ironing was to get rid of these wrinkles, yet they were back with a vengeance. I suddenly did not feel so sorry for them.
I began ironing hard. I turned the heat up higher. I was an ironing madman, destroying every wrinkle with hatred and sense of vengeance. Again, I took a step back.
I had removed one wrinkle.
If I were a less controlled person, I would have flipped the ironing board over and began throwing things. As a calm and collected person, though, I did the rational thing.
“WHY WON’T THIS SHIRT IRON?!” I cried to no one in particular.
My wife glanced over, unfazed by my battle.
“Did you put water in the iron?”
I looked at her with the most confused look a person could have.
“It steams the wrinkles out.”
As it turns out, it does just that. I was able to remove most of the wrinkles and will not look like a complete idiot tomorrow.
That is unless I have to walk somewhere or try on a glove. My stupid genes will guarantee that ends poorly.