Admit it. You have pulled a shirt out of the closet and then stood there a few seconds as you decided whether the shirt was too wrinkly. You have run your hand down the front of the shirt, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. You have pulled at the cuff of the pants, hoping to save yourself from that thankless chore: ironing.

I didn't realize how little I ironed until my five-year-old caught me in the actual act of ironing and asked, "What's that?"

I may not iron very often, but it's not like the iron sits in the back of my closet, gathering dust. It emerges regularly to iron on patches over torn kneeholes, rather than lugging out the sewing machine to mend the holes. (The lighter object obviously wins that battle.)

So I have decided to change my ways. No longer will my son wonder about that strange object called an iron which emerges every couple months. The iron has not returned to its rightful spot in the laundry room; instead, it now has a permanent home on my dresser in full view.

 

There are those people who can't emerge from their house without everything wrinkle-free. Creases line their pants, shirts and jackets. I try not to think about their undergarments, al-though we'll cover those in a few minutes.

Obviously, I'm not one of those people who has to have everything picture perfect.

It took me until my mid-20s before I began making my bed on a daily basis. I had always rationalized not making my with the theory, "Why make it? You'll just mess it up again tonight."

(My daughter has been quoting that same theory back to me recently and I haven't come up with an adequate response to disprove the theory. Instead, I resort to the lame parental standby: Because I said so.)

The same theory roughly applies to ironing. Why iron it? You'll just wrinkle it up again as soon as you put it on. The first time you sit down, the back of the shirt will be wrinkled. The first time you bend over, the front of the pants will have new found creases.

Usually, the only way something gets ironed in my house is if an item is so wrinkly, my 6-year-old is offended. And half the time, my response is not to get the iron out because we're running late already. Instead the shirt is returned to the closet to be ironed at a later date and a less offensive item is selected. Problem solved. At least for that day.

 

It's not like I grew up in an iron-less home. In fact, I have an iron-rich background. My mother ironed on a weekly basis, spending at least an hour every Saturday morning hunched over the ironing board.

But the true ironer in my family was grandmother. Once a year, she descended upon our home for not only the spring cleaning, but the spring ironing.

Everything and anything was subject to her iron.

Prime targets were the curtains, which I always assumed would straighten themselves out as they hung on the curtain rods.

Another frequent article were my family's jeans. Since I was never a fan of pressed jeans, I tried to hide anything all of denim articles of clothing during the week-long visit.

But the most baffling piece to hit the ironing board during her stay were the undergarments, in particular underwear. I could never figure out why the underwear was ironed because no one saw it, they never got particularly wrinkled and most importantly, I didn't need my grandmother flinging my underwear around the living room, especially during my teenage years.

On those rare days when I scan my house, wondering what cleaning project I should tackle, ironing will occasionally enter my mind. And while I may consider taking the drapes down for a quick ironing, just for old times sake, my family's jeans and undergarments are staying safely tucked away in the closets.

 

-- Since the iron was out, Ronda Graff was going to iron all her shirts, but decided against it because they would just get wrinkled when they were put away.