I got up this morning, and honest to god I ironed a shirt. I don't know what came over me. This is not a pattern of behavior to which I am accustomed, in fact I think I've almost convinced everyone at work that the "maybe-I-slept-in-this" look is an intentionally cultivated aspect of my creative eccentricity.
I don't know, today I just looked at this particularly wrinkled shirt hanging in my closet (the way they tend to get when you leave them in the dryer for three days) and thought maybe it would look cuter if it weren't wrinkled.
None of the kids were awake yet … I might be able to slip downstairs and iron under the cover of early morning darkness so as not to upset the delicately established precedent that Mommy Doesn't Iron.
Despite my unfamiliarity with the process, it went rather smoothly. And the shirt did look much cuter. So I proceeded with the morning routine and hopped off to work feeling extraordinarily crisp.
Then I got to my office and happened to look down at my supposedly crisp shirt.
The wrinkles are back.
This reminds me of those joke birthday candles that keep relighting after you blow them out.
I think the lesson here is that three days of sitting in a dryer cannot be undone by five minutes of furtive ironing.
Maybe when I'm domesticated I'll cross-stitch that into a sampler and hang it on my wall.