flat out

While doing a bit of the odd cleaning and tidying today I got to thinking about the types of chores that I love and loathe. Some I'll do grudgingly (toilet cleaning - erk), others I try to adopt a zen state while I undertake (unloading the dishwasher, putting away clean clothes) and others I just will not do (ironing). Yep, I'm a non-ironer. 

I think I was scarred for life by a white, cotton pirate shirt I had in the 80s. See, I begged for it, and my mother agreed, but only if I'd iron it. Sure enough, the darned thing would sit at the bottom of the ironing basket, getting more crumpled and despicable with every week. Day-by-day more clothes were piled on top and it shrunk and crinkled and almost glowered with wrinkles. Every now and again I'd bring it out, think about ironing it, and shudder before placing it at the bottom. Of course, sometimes I'd just have to wear it with my white knickerbockers and gold belt and shoes combo (I repeat, it was the 80s) so I'd have to dig it out, spray it with the water bottle and spend half an hour cursing as I ironed out one crease, to replace it with another.

Now, I don't iron. I hang out my washing with care, shaking out all the wrinkles and pulling things flat. Then I carefully fold it when I bring it in, and hang anything that can be hung so any remaining wrinkles fall out. 

It works, we look relatively neat and tidy. My husband's work shirts look fine - not pristine, but fine. I hang them all on hangers and all the wrinkles seem to fall out as they dry.

All this time I'm not spending on ironing, or angsting over the growing pile, means I have time to do other stuff - like sleep, or read, or cook. My brow doesn't furrow every time I think about the ironing - because it just doesn't exist, so I'm also saving on botox - bonus!