I grabbed the tea kettle from the nearest burner and reflected: She dutifully irons her clothes every day, even if we’re just walking three blocks to the Little Red Roaster in order to have coffee with the same people we’ll see for the next 30 years, warts, mussed-up hair, wrinkles and all, and I haven’t used one for 15 years.
I think I stopped ironing my clothes about two seconds after realizing nobody cares a toot how many wrinkles are in my shirt so neither should I.
But my wife cares.
She sets up the ironing board every morning about the same time my alarm goes off, heats up the iron while I’m catching the first bit of news on CBC radio (“Oil prices fluctuated yesterday causing economists to suggest Canadians should sell their big homes and move in with their parents. Now, over to Sports.”) and presses yesterday’s wrinkles into oblivion as I’m taking my first steps of the day.
She wants to look her best. I want to reach the bathroom without wetting my pants.
She unplugs the iron and puts it on the stove to cool down. I turn on the shower and hope she’s left me hot water.
She picks my clothes off the floor near the foot of the bed and I plunge her hair out of the drain so the water rising in the tub doesn’t touch my ankles.
Miraculously, though we approach wrinkles in two completely different ways, we reach the front door ready for coffee at about the same time.
[More news, even better than CBC radio, at Four Mugs and a Crock]
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