ironing

One would think that ironing was dull topic. It is, mostly. Unless, I guess you have obsessive compulsive disorder... then it could be a topic that knows no limits.

I don't have obsessive compulsive disorder any more than your average person. Everyone has their idiosyncratic habits that when analysed could be called obsessive compulsive - like for example the age old question of, "which way do you hang the toilet paper, then?". Now, there's a question that can start wars. Forget religion! The toilet paper is enough.

For your information, I like to hang it so the paper goes over the top of the roll and hangs out from the wall. It is all my mothers fault. It could have been hereditry, or just learned... however her obsession about which way the toilet paper was hanging was passed on. Mind you, after seeing a few public toilets, the idea of the paper not touching the wall seems pretty sane to me.

Anyway, back to ironing... I have had some bizarre conversations about ironing in my life. You know the kind you have at 3am when there is nothing better to do, or after a few drinks when it seems to make perfect sense to be talking about ironing. Mosty these snippets stayed tucked away, but every now and then a few randomly moving brain cells collide and I find my thoughts on conversations and stories that centre around ironing. Or maybe it's just the people I hang out with. Actually that is probably it.

stupid-itis

The medical definition of "itis", (yes there is a meaning to it, it is not something just chucked at the end of diseases to make them sound more intriguing or scarier), is "An inflamed case of" [any given condition].

Soooo... one day I am ironing my shirt before work. (Please keep in mind, it was morning and I am not a morning person - except occassionally in my imagination or if it gets to morning and I have not made it to bed yet. That's different though. Until you have slept, it's not a new day). Where was I? Ah yes. So I have finished ironing my shirt, which is not one of my top ten past times, and have put it on. I look down and notice just there is an area around the buttons near my chest that has not been ironed properly, and therefore will earn comments when I get to work.

What do I do? Do I whip off the shirt and enthusiastically iron it? Nope. Not me. I decide to have a debate with myself. (Now, I know this is not boding well for my sanity, but really, it was morning and I am sure I had a low caffeine count). The first sign of madness, they say is talking to yourself. The second sign is answering. Who are "they" anyway?. In school, I had this English teacher that told me that if I read things out loud, I would easily be able to pick up errors and make sense of things - I guess it just escalated from there. I spent a lot of time living on my own - or with only pets for company and so talking to yourself becomes second nature. YES, I am justifying.

Anyway, because I am quite comfortable with chatting away to myself and have got kind of comfortable answering myself as well (it sometimes helps to consider all sides of an argument), the debate went something along the lines of:

not so bright me: "Hmmm... why don't I just iron the shirt while it is on, I mean, how hard can it be. If I'm real careful, I won't burn myself"

sensible me: "Why risk it. Removing the shirt and ironing it is not going to take that long."

not so bright me: "But that will take too long... why don't I just...."

sensible me: "No! Don't even think it."

and so on, and so forth.

The upshot is that not-so-bright me, decided to be tricky and just go for it. Hmmm. You think it would be easy not to iron yourself. Perhaps for co-ordinated people. But not for me. Nooooo, sireeeee. I ended up with a small triangular red burnt welt just to above and to the left of my right breast. Where you can see it, unless you are wearing shirts buttoned up to the collar. Do you know how hard that is to explain? (as if you'd want to explain it anyway). Like it is a triangle. A triangle. It is not easy to pretend that you got it some other way, I mean what leaves a triangular red welt? Some exotic, but very cool African spider that I have never heard of perhaps.

I tried not to tell. One of my mates at work started referring to the mystery welt/scar as my "tribal initiation wound"... that is until he heard the real story from a member of my family who shall remain unnamed (but who will now be aware that I remember this indiscretion).

The moral of this story? (There isn't one... but for you, I'll make one up.) Short-cuts are not really worth it, they cause a lot of literal (or metaphoric pain) in the long run. And... if you are going to do something really stupid, (especially an act of self induced stupidity), make sure your family and friends are silenced right from the start (or preferably not in the vicinity). These days my ironing habits are kept to an absolute minimum.

a final thought

I have a friend that once shared with me his theory about how ironing was invented to keep women enslaved.... before you start the catch-cry of "Femmo" you should probably know that this theory did come from a male, and not a female... I also suspect that it was very tongue in cheek.