“In case you end up with someone who can’t,” she remarks with a slight eye roll. “They don’t teach this anymore.”
Flashback to the summer of 1988: I’m 12 years old, standing next to my mother in our kitchen, both of us leaning over a metallic gray ironing board. The beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam hums softly, set to the “cotton” level, gurgling steam as it prepares for the task at hand. A crisp white church shirt belonging to my stepfather lies facedown, waiting for its transformation.
“Start with the yoke,” she instructs, spraying a light mist of canned starch before pressing the iron onto the broad strip of fabric at the shirt’s back. It glides smoothly, appearing brighter and crisper. “Now it’s your turn,” she says. As I attempt to replicate her motion, some fabric catches beneath the iron. “Cat faces,” she calls the unsightly folds with a disapproving frown.
I carefully go over the area again, smoothing it out. We continue with the sleeves, collar, and the rest, employing her meticulous spray-and-spread method. “Your Aunt Lily swears by dip starch,” she adds, as if I’m familiar with the term. I can picture it, though.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and I find myself in my own kitchen, getting ready for the day ahead. I’ve adopted a different approach: I start with the sleeves, flip the shirt quickly, steam the front and back with haste, and pay extra attention to the collar and pocket. If I have starch on hand, I’ll use it; if not, no big deal. As long as the wrinkles are gone, I’m satisfied. My method probably earns an eye-roll from Mom.
It’s not that I married someone who can’t iron; rather, I’ve developed a secret passion for getting my shirt perfectly smooth before tackling the day’s duties. Even in the world of “iron-free” and “wrinkle-resistant” clothing, I insist on maintaining my own standard. As I hastily press a blue Oxford cloth, I can’t help but think of my mother’s lessons in that warm, inviting kitchen. While chaos may reign elsewhere, I ensure that what I wear remains polished and orderly.
This article was originally published on May 10, 2015.
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In summary, my near obsession with ironing stems from lessons learned alongside my mother. While my methods differ, the significance of presenting myself well remains ingrained in me, a testament to her influence.
Keyphrase: ironing obsession
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