I also don’t do windows
I don’t iron.
I mean, I don’t iron. Not a bit.
I have, for most of my adult life, owned an iron. The last time I remember using it was 2004. Linen pants for first date. On said date, I mentioned I had a confession. And more important than pointing out I was still a court date, a truck title, and few signatures away from being not-married, I needed this man to know that I did not iron and it was the last time he’d see those pants unwrinkled.
Unsurprisingly, since he was more interested in getting the pants off me than whether I could compete with his mother (and indeed, I could not. Damn that is a tough awesome woman), he did not care.
You might think that I just dry clean or send out, but I don’t. I just basically run around wrinkled and don’t care. I guess that more of my fancier work clothes did end up dry cleaned (or at least dryeled). But even when I worked in an office, I was a software engineer working in an office. The greatest work outfit I had included the “only 10 types of people” binary T-shirt.
Tom knew that I didn’t iron right off the bat. He swore it didn’t bother him. And true to his word, the few times we’ve had emergency ironing situations (the latest being chair covers), he’s stepped up.
But he doesn’t iron his work shirts. And he recently received a promotion to the point that dress code is important. So today I asked him if it ever comes up and he said he makes a point to slip it into conversation early.
“Then when I come in wrinkled they can just shake their heards and say, ‘well…it’s kinda like being a bachelor.’”
Which sums up our marriage nicely.