Ironing

The laundress, sweating in a cloud of steam as she irons mounds of (men's) shirts, is pretty much the poster child of the feminist movement. My life -- at least my professional life -- is pretty much the other poster child: degree in Engineering, with emphasis on Chemical Engineering. Technical writing career in the high tech industry, when high tech was the very coolest place to be. Etc etc. Fact is, though, I like to do ironing. I especially like to iron my guy's shirts. The sisterhood would be aghast. What's the deal here?

I find fabric both sensual and rich in history. I like the feel of it under my fingers. I like the way the cotton goes from wrinkled to crisp as I stroke it with the iron. I like the routine of ironing a shirt: collar, left cuff, sleeve back, sleeve front, right cuff, sleeve back, sleeve front, right shoulder, yoke, left shoulder, left front, back, right front, done. I smooth the tight cotton with my hand, then with steam, then with the iron. Lift and pull, taking the shirt though its stations on the board.

Fabric is amazing stuff. Thread is amazing stuff. As I work I feel connected to a thousand generations, mostly women, who took bits of fluff, cotton or wool, and transformed into thread, then fabric, then garments. I've spun on a drop spindle, and I know the magic of feeling strong, useful yarn come into being as it passes through my hands.

I follow a woven stripe with the point of the iron, assured I am working with the grain. I whisk the finished shirt off the board, crisp, slightly damp, too malleable still to hang in the closet. I arrange it gently on the hanger, hang it in the door frame, and carefully fasten two buttons. It pleases me, hanging there, perfect, the work of my hands.