The clothes were done. It was the first time I’d dried them in a machine in weeks (thanks, Mom and Dad!), and I’d forgotten how soft they could be when not hung on a line. I keep thinking of this book on tape I listened to with the West family on our drive to the Nehers’ for Thanksgiving. This French surrogate mother raising a girl in Arizona doesn’t like to dry on the clothesline. She always says, “Let’s make them California soft,” by sticking them in the dryer. Ohhh, California soft. Mmmm.
On my new, though very old, ironing board that was built in the days of sturdy-structured furniture, I warmed my iron. In the past few weeks, I’ve been heating the iron while it’s rested on the [non-functional] dryer, and ironed precariously and not thoroughly on that metal surface. But thanks to Wally’s estate sale, I now have an incredible ironing board that will last at least through my lifetime, if not my children’s children’s.
Ironing is something I’ve always hated. There’s this poem I like with the line: “He is willing to wear unironed undershorts/Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing.” I’ve even talked about my love for Downey Wrinkle Release spray, both because of it’s lovely scent and because it really helps with wrinkles, which rarely actually bother me. But then my friend Brit talks so fondly of ironing, of how great she feels when she’s wearing something wrinkle-free. (My friend Kenley starches and irons his bed sheets, and he did mine when he and his wife, Jara, purchased some for my birthday last year.)
Brit irons straight out of the shoot—from dryer to ironing board to closet, so anything is ready to be worn at any moment. So, I started doing it, too. I learned from her example, as I often do. (And also have added some clothes to my wardrobe that perpetually wrinkle.) So I left my iron resting on the ironing board in the basement. Set up and ready to go. And, yes, it is way easier on a board than on the dryer.