Wrinkles R Us
This is a picture of me, ironing in a hotel room on a trip to L.A. ... in March of 2007.
That was the last time I ironed.
Yes, it has seriously been that long.
I don't really iron all that often.
It's because Curtis is really picky about the way his stuff is ironed - so I figure he can just do it himself! Besides, he spent six years in the Air Force and was meticulous about ironing his shirts every single day. He's used to it.
(Oh yeah, and partially because I tend to scorch stuff.)
I avoid ironing at all costs. I know the tricks: tossing a wrinkled shirt in the dryer for a few minutes, hanging a dress over the shower curtain in a hot, steamy bathroom. Or - and this is my least favorite - just get your crap out' the dryer before it has a chance to wrinkle in the first place. (Which I usually fail to do.)
Sometimes I wonder if my stuff's, like, super-wrinkled and I don't even notice. Like, I'm so used to the wrinkles and they're so low on my priority list that I'm just blind to them, and I walk around and people are all muttering to themselves, "OMG. Did she sleep in a suitcase?" And then after that they're like, "No, that big ass wouldn't fit in a suitcase. She must just be superlazy about ironing."
... Or not. Whatever.