A Despicable Chore

You know what is worse than laundry?  Dusting. But there is yet a more despicable chore than dusting.  Ironing.  I do not iron.  Ever.  Seriously.

This is how bad it is.  I came into our marriage eight and half years ago with a bad iron and a broken ironing board.  We eventually got rid of both and replaced only the iron … after a while when I felt like there should at least be one in the house just in case.  Still I never used it.  No lie.

Last year I did finally break out the iron for some reason that must have been special but I cannot remember.  Kiki said “what’s that?”.  Should I feel shame?  I probably should but I do not.

I am forced to iron right now.  All the clothes I am selling at the kids consignment sale are suppose to be ironed.  I borrowed my mother-in-laws little ironing board and her iron (because I could not find mine).  This was my set up, which I later moved to the living room floor in front of the t.v.

Why is ironing so despicable?  Maybe it is because it is a pain in the neck.  Literally.  My neck hurts from looking down to iron.  Why subject myself unnecessarily to pain?


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