Mr. P and I fell pretty neatly into traditional domestic man/wife roles. I do most of the cooking, except when Mr. P is inspired to concoct some fantastic, time-consuming plat principal. I do the cleaning, the tidying, and the de-cluttering. Mr. P takes out the trash, handles the heavy garden labor, and is the resident IT guy. But although I do the laundry, we do deviate from our gendered responsibilities when it comes to the ironing.
I don’t iron, not out of any staunch refusal, but simply because I don’t know how. Once in a great while, I’ll decide that an article of clothing transcends the acceptable wrinkle threshold, and I’ll clumsily poke at it with an iron until it’s riddled with profound creases and half-melted buttons. So, I don’t iron.
When I first met Mr. P, he wouldn’t wear anything unless it had been ironed. He even ironed his t-shirts. Apparently ironed clothes feel really great against the skin. Partly because of time constraints, partly because of my relentless teasing, he’s relaxed his “iron everything” policy in the past few years, but still insists that his buttoned-down shirts be meticulously ironed.
This, he must do himself, with a skill, dexterity, and wit that never fails to fill me with pride. My iron man.
