Ironing

It’s Sunday morning in our two-teacher household.  And Sunday morning around our house means schoolwork.  My husband is back in his study, hammering out comments for his third-quarter seniors.  I’m at the dining room table, ready to give my grades for the quarter a last look before I press the button to load them into report cards.  But I’m sharing my space with the next job on the list:  ironing.

I love to iron, the same way I love to cut grass.  It’s the very opposite of most housework, where the “after” looks pretty much like the “before.”  Out of two big heaps of wrinkles and creases and crumples, I can create smooth order.

I love the sounds of ironing.  I pour water into the iron and wait a few seconds for the hiss and burble that tells me it’s heating up.  I even love the curvy French lemonade bottle I use to fill the iron.

I love the smell of ironing.  Warm cotton smells like toast.  It’s the scent of comfort and neatness, a little swatch of perfection in a messy world.

I love the colors of ironing.  Under my iron today will pass checks and stripes and pink flowers, soft denim and crisp poplin, cherry red and lavender and blue.

In an hour or so, I’ll be done.  The clothes will hang, smooth and ready, in the closets.  I’ll feel a bit smoother and more ready too.  Bring on crazy Monday.  I can deal with it.

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