“In case you end up with someone who can’t,” she quips with a playful eye roll. “Nobody teaches this stuff anymore.”
Flashback to me, a 12-year-old kid in the summer of 1988, side by side with my mom in our kitchen. We’re huddled over a metallic gray ironing board, her trusty beige Sunbeam Select-O-Steam ready with steam hissing like a kettle. Spread out before us is one of my stepdad’s church shirts—white, collared, with a single breast pocket—lying face down on the board.
“Start with the yoke,” she instructs, spraying a light mist of starch before smoothing the fabric with the iron, making it look pristine and bright. “Now you try.” I take a shot at it, but some of the fabric catches beneath the iron, creating those dreaded “cat faces” she despises. After some careful maneuvering, I manage to fix my error. We tackle the sleeves, collar, and the front and back panels with her meticulous spray-and-spread technique. “Your Aunt Linda swears by dip starch,” she mentions, as if I have any clue what that means. I nod, trying to picture this mysterious old-school liquid.
Fast forward 25 years, and here I am, standing in my own kitchen, preparing my work shirt for the day. I’ve ditched Mom’s meticulous method for a quicker approach: sleeves first, flip it over, steam the front, then the back. A quick touch-up on the collar and pocket—if there’s starch around, I’ll use it, but if not, I’m not sweating it. After all, as long as the wrinkles are gone, I’m a happy camper. Mom would probably raise an eyebrow at my rushed technique.
It’s not that I married someone who’s hopeless with an iron; instead, I’ve developed my own little obsession with achieving that perfect press before heading out. Even in a time when “iron-free” and “wrinkle-resistant” fabrics abound, my clothes must be ironed to my liking. As I give a quick once-over to my blue Oxford shirt, I can’t help but reflect on Mom’s teachings from that cozy kitchen. The world may be chaotic, but thanks to her lessons, my attire remains a bastion of order.
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In summary, my passion for ironing, instilled in me by my mother, has become a quirky part of my daily routine. Even with the rise of modern clothing technologies, I find comfort in keeping my shirts pressed and tidy. It’s a small anchor of order in an otherwise unpredictable world.