I hate ironing. With a passion.

I'm sure that every person in the world has ONE job that they absolutely hate.

Some people - it's picking up dog poo.
Or cleaning up puke.
Or shoveling the snow off the driveway in wintertime.
Or cleaning bathrooms.

You get my point.

My least favourite thing to do on the planet is ironing.
Yes.
You read that correctly.
I. Hate. Ironing.

I'm sure most irons and ironing boards are quite nice and effective.
I just can't get through a shirt (or God forbid a pair of pants!) without uttering some choice four letter words on how I'd like to send all irons to the deepest part of the ocean, and I'd toss in all things that need to be ironed after them.
I kid you not.
I shop according to the care label that is sewn underneath the label. If it says "Iron on medium heat" I don't buy it. I've even really LIKED shirts that I've tried on, but if it has to be ironed, it's an automatic candidate for the "NO WAY IN HELL AM I EVER BUYING THIS" pile.

My mother used to moan and berate me for my non-ironing ways. "What do you think you're going to do when you're an adult? You can't just wear jeans and tee shirts to work, Cindy!", she'd say.
Of course, I totally bested her in that. At my job, I DO wear jeans and cotton shirts! Ha! I won, Mom!

And when I fell in love, I fell in love with this great guy who was super sensitive, outspoken, and tidy. Who ironed all his stuff, including his jeans. Who never owned a dresser that he actually put CLOTHES in - he hung all of his stuff up in the closet.

Fast forward 13 years. I just finished ironing HIS WORK OUTFITS. I drew the line at using the lint brush, because honestly, if I had to lint brush his clothes on top of ironing them, I'm pretty sure I would have either a) burnt all his clothes on purpose or b) gone stark raving mad.
My blood pressure was already quite high to begin with. I could feel throbbing in my forehead (which is never a good sign).

I ironed all of his clothes.

Hubby was super appreciative but leery of me as I was finishing up. (Not sure what tipped him off.... Maybe the steam/smoke coming out of my ears was a good clue) He tried to make a joke, and to make me laugh, and I skewered him with a Death Glare that we females are famous for.

He quickly fell silent.

I then finished the last sleeve that I was working on, and told him that I loathed ironing.
He seemed to nod, like he understood it. But I could tell that he didn't.
Then I said something that shocked him.
"I would rather have a Pap Test than iron."
He looked at me, agast.
"Seriously? You hate it THAT much?"

I looked at him and said "What did you think when I said that I hated ironing? I would rather get braces put on my teeth again than iron clothing."

I think he finally got that I hate ironing.

Let's hope I never have to do THAT again.