Life without wrinkles

So it turns out I miss ironing. When it was a weekly duty, I considered it a check-off chore to sandwich between loading the dishwasher and sorting toddler socks.

But last week I pulled a crumpled holiday tablecloth from the linen drawer and found myself reaching for the ironing board. Remember that squeal an ironing board makes when you unfold it, the singular sound of aluminum on aluminum? It triggered something.

I dug through the hall closet and found the iron, filled it with water and plugged it in. Once underway, the whoosh of steam brought back an unexpected surge of memories. It sounds ridiculous, I know. How could my life be so devoid of adventure that I suddenly felt nostalgic about ironing? But there it was.

I was ironing my husband’s Army BDU jacket at our apartment near Washington, D.C. when the news broke that the Berlin Wall had come down. I stood in front of the television with a can of spray starch, watching the footage of people cheering and popping bottles of champagne from atop the concrete barrier that had brought so much heartache to so many.

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