Now I know how a surgeon feels
Okay. Sunday night, in a trade off with SockMama, I agreed to iron her shirt in exchange for her doing the dishes. That was great for me - I hate the dishes almost as much as I hate reality TV. Almost.
But here's the thing. In my vast ironing background, I've only experienced ironing my stuff. Needless to say, I'm a pro at ironing slacks and dress shirts. Seriously, if there were an ironing Olympics, I would probably get to a medal round. I doubt I would get the Gold, though - that honor would most likely be bestowed on a guy from SoHo who lives above the Versace store.
Anyhow. I plug in the iron and fire it up (Heat Level: 5 - this is cotton we're talking about). As it's heating up, I take a good look at my adversary: It's a colorful striped shirt with a pronounced collar and oh-so-cutely designed cuffs that are folded back. And stitched. A considerable opponent, to be sure.
The iron clicks and I (gently) lay the shirt down on the board. But there's a problem. It seems that, for whatever reason, women's clothes have more stitch lines than men's clothes. So while my dress shirt folds easly on its various lines, this shirt wouldn't---instead of forming a nice, simple crease at the line, there are TWO stitch lines that, no matter what angle of approach I took, I couldn't get the area pressed. I would fold one side and it would fuck up the other side. The definition of a vicious cycle.
20 minutes later, I'm still grappling with my new foe. No amount of folding, halving, shaping, smoothing, or altering helped; the shirt was becoming even more wrinkled by the minute. I decided to take a different approach.
By buttoning the shirt, I was able to flank the double stitching sides and effectievely iron out many of the wrinkles. Alas, the area in between the doublt stitching remained untouchable - it was the cotton Don Corleone. And I happened to be playing the hapless mortician who's daughter got mugged by some thugs in the begining of the movie.
But here's the thing. In my vast ironing background, I've only experienced ironing my stuff. Needless to say, I'm a pro at ironing slacks and dress shirts. Seriously, if there were an ironing Olympics, I would probably get to a medal round. I doubt I would get the Gold, though - that honor would most likely be bestowed on a guy from SoHo who lives above the Versace store.
Anyhow. I plug in the iron and fire it up (Heat Level: 5 - this is cotton we're talking about). As it's heating up, I take a good look at my adversary: It's a colorful striped shirt with a pronounced collar and oh-so-cutely designed cuffs that are folded back. And stitched. A considerable opponent, to be sure.
The iron clicks and I (gently) lay the shirt down on the board. But there's a problem. It seems that, for whatever reason, women's clothes have more stitch lines than men's clothes. So while my dress shirt folds easly on its various lines, this shirt wouldn't---instead of forming a nice, simple crease at the line, there are TWO stitch lines that, no matter what angle of approach I took, I couldn't get the area pressed. I would fold one side and it would fuck up the other side. The definition of a vicious cycle.
20 minutes later, I'm still grappling with my new foe. No amount of folding, halving, shaping, smoothing, or altering helped; the shirt was becoming even more wrinkled by the minute. I decided to take a different approach.
By buttoning the shirt, I was able to flank the double stitching sides and effectievely iron out many of the wrinkles. Alas, the area in between the doublt stitching remained untouchable - it was the cotton Don Corleone. And I happened to be playing the hapless mortician who's daughter got mugged by some thugs in the begining of the movie.
posted by The Haiku Review at 1:18 PM
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