I can iron.
I mean it. I can iron like no other. My mother made us iron our clothes and do our laundry when we were kids. So I can iron pretty damn well. My brother, he can iron better than me, but I think that’s because he ironed everything (I’m not kidding, I caught him ironing his jeans once – it was the early 90s).
For Christmas, the Chief bought me a lovely shirt that didn’t fit me. I have to wear large tall shirts, and alas, this was only a large. Not her fault, but I have a freakishly inconvenient broad set of shoulders. As such, I usually get shirts tailored to fit me, or large talls. So I took the shirt back and picked up a nice fitted shirt for my measurements. I took it home, washed it, and let it hang in the closet for a couple weeks.
This morning, I remembered the shirt. I had the time, so I thought I’d iron it up. I had some new starch ready to go. Once the iron was heated up, I started starching and ironing, starching and ironing. Slow and sure. Ironing is zen. There is nothing like a crisp, ironed shirt with light starch.
All said, it took me about 20 minutes to get the shirt ready. I held it up, the morning sunlight flooding through the windows. I admired my work, and delicately slid my arms through the sleeves to put it on.
As my wrist hit the second sleeve I felt the fabric on my back stretch to accommodate my shoulders. I sighed, and held out both my arms straight in front of me. The sleeves shot up towards my elbows. Visions of Tommy Boy danced through my head ( ...fat man in a little coat… ).
As I drove to work, already noticing the wrinkles starting to appear, I decided that either I somehow shrank the shirt in the wash, or the shirt wasn’t labeled correctly. Either way, I can Hulkamania out of this shirt with a few deep breaths. This is the bane of my existence. I will probably “spill something” on myself and change over lunch today to jeans and a polo. Dammit.
At least it is Friday…
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