I ironed a shirt today for the
first time in years. It use to be that people wouldn’t leave the house unless
they looked proper. When I was a kid I’d sometimes iron my clothes before school so as not to look like a slob. Even the kids in gangs took the time to
iron their clothes back then. They were the most meticulous. They had perfect
creases on their pants and shirts. I think they used heavy starch to get their
creases razor sharp.
My
mother ironed for hours at time to make sure I looked presentable. My aunt Margaret
was the same way. My mother and aunt were good at it. I’ve never mastered it. I
don’t have the patience for it. It’s like a wrestling match when I do it. It
doesn’t matter if it’s a shirt or a pair of pants, I’ll have trouble. The
fabric folds or bends in a manner that simply drives me nuts, and when I apply
the steam it seems to make it worse. It makes permanent the impatience I’m
feeling. It makes evident my state of mind. I don’t want to wear my state of
mind, so I'll keep trying until I get it right.
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