Friday, August 22, 2014
For three years I lived with a guy who ironed. On the surface that sounds like a blessing. It wasn’t.
I got so tired of hearing, “Baaaaabe, will you iron my shirt (or pants)? I’m gonna be late for work.”
This is what was unsaid: “I know you just got home from work, after an hour’s commute each way. And I know you need to write a paper for school (or study for a test). And I know I left the kitchen in a mess during the 30 minutes I’ve been awake. And I know there are dirty clothes all over the closet and bathroom floors. And I know I kept you awake last night by staying up all night playing on the Wii with my buddies. And I know I’ll probably do the same tonight. And, yes, I was probably legally drunk when I took your car to Jack in the Box at 4am after you finally went to sleep. And, by the way, I don’t have rent money.”
And that, my friends, is why I left the iron when I moved out.
Guess I need to make a trip to Wal-Mart tomorrow. But, I only have to iron my cross stitch and not the shirt (or pants) of a bully.