Iron (wo)Man. Or Not.

I realized the other day, as we were sitting in our Sunday School class, that I have never taken my husband's shirts to get dry cleaned.  I know, I lose points for not paying 100% attention in church of all places, but I couldn't help it.  There we sat in a room full of people and almost all of the men had beautifully ironed and starched shirts.  The kind you could tell had been pressed by one of those industrial pressers, not the iron-at-home-kind.

This is a Dry Cleaning Press. Beautiful, isn't it?

I began to go around the room and take note that these men, whose shirts alone made them look like they could run for a seat in the Senate, must have good wives.  "Oh!," I thought to myself upon looking at one particular fellow, "he must have a good wife.   I can just tell she cares."  I guess it's a woman thing.  I don't know. But that was my thought.  And I looked back at my husband, sitting next to me clueless as to what pointless thoughts were swirling in my brain, and my smile waned. I realized that not once in over 8 years of marriage had it even occurred to me that my man might like a nicely ironed shirt.  Not everyday, mind you.  We don't have one of those money trees growing in our backyard.  But perhaps every once in a while?  Maybe he too, like me, would appreciate the complete disappearance of any unwelcome wrinkles or creases in his shirts.

And again, I looked at Ryan, the one who still takes my breath away every day, and I felt a little sorry that he'd gotten stuck with me and my cleaning abilities, or lack thereof.  A gal who, even on my best days, can't iron a lick, and relies almost entirely on my dryer to get rid of those stubborn wrinkles.  That's right.  I am the kinda gal who will dampen a wrinkled shirt and stick it in the dryer with a towel or two.  Phew...feels good to finally admit that.  (Did anyone else just hear my mom start crying? Sorry mom.  This is not your fault. You tried.)  Can I also admit that the iron comes out in 911 cases only?  It does.  Emergencies only. Here she is. My iron:

But, to give myself a little credit, I also realized as I was sitting there that this man I married could truly care less. It's just not who he is.  And because his job requires him to wear jeans and get dirty most days, ironed shirts are definitely not at the top of his priority list.  Clean socks? Now that's a different story.  That is priority numero uno.

And so, sitting there in Sunday School, I reconciled within myself that I was, in fact, not the worst wife ever to grace this world.

And then I looked down and saw the stark white socks my husband was wearing with his black dress pants and black dress shoes.  I realized immediately that I had forgotten to do the dark laundry and my husband was forced to wear the white socks.  I am grateful that he could care less about things like that.  I, on the other hand, feel like this is a direct reflection on me.  I sank a little lower in my seat at this moment.

So, as soon as church was out, I promptly went home and did laundry.  I also took a few of his shirts to get dry cleaned.  Because that's also the kind of gal I am.

Please notice the ironed shirt he is wearing.

I think he still likes me.