I may be a bit old fashioned in some ways. I like to read the newspaper. I think it’s rude to pay more attention to your phone than to the people around you. I believe it’s proper to eat dinner at the table and not in front of the tv (unless you’re watching The Office) and I think that one of my duties as a good wifey is to make sure my husband’s work clothes are ironed when he puts them on in the morning.
These beliefs sometimes cause me trouble and extra work, but none so much as the last. I do believe that it is part of my job to make sure Mr. Torres’ clothes are wearable before he tries to put them on, but, boy oh boy, do I hate ironing.
It’s tedious. It’s slow (I’m assuming I will one day get faster) and it’s never-ending. Well, almost.
I was thinking about this recently while ironing a pile of shirts that I had just pulled out of the dryer. Mr. Torres and I have only been married for a little over five months and I have already done more ironing than I have ever desired. At this point, I could be looking at another thirty-five plus years of ironing before Mr. Torres retires and his daily attire changes from slacks and button-up shirts to t-shirts and pajama pants. Thirty. Five. Years.
As I was trying to figure out how to iron yet another awkward shirt arm, I started doing the math to figure out exactly how many shirts we were looking at needing to be ironed over the next million (aka thirty-five years). The results did not look pretty.
And then, I had a sort of realization regarding my new found least favorite activity.
The only reason that I have shirts to iron is that I have a husband. Not only do I have a husband, but I have a husband who has a job. And not just any job, but a job that allows him to work in the relative safety of his office doing the type of computery stuff that he likes to do.
Ironing may still be one of my least favorite activities, but I hope I have the privilege of doing it for the next thirty-five plus years…
because as long as I have ironing, I have this guy.