The Iron Will

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. 

Sunday Driver

            I exited the highway on a street called Catholic Center Drive, and then made a left turn on Buddhist Circle. I drove a few blocks and made a right turn on Hindu Pass. I still had no idea where I was so I turned onto Judaism Road. Judaism Road turned into a cul-de-sac, so I doubled back and made a left on Islamic Trail Avenue. I wondered how a trail could be called an avenue. The city planners had made an error in my estimation. I saw a series of small streets: Mormon Tabernacle Way, Confucius Lane, Baptist Choir Road. I stayed the course on Islamic Trail avenue, and somehow I found the highway again, and didn’t look back for fear of turning into a pillar of salt.