Hotel Ironing

It’s a rare thing for me to pull out an iron at home. Most of our clothes don’t require it. (I abandoned creased jeans about the same time skinny jeans came along—life’s too short to fight denim trends.) We’ll occasionally cave when attending a grandchild’s performance or trying to look respectable for polite society, but up here on the ridge? The critters don’t care, pressed lines don’t make chores easier, and mud-spattered wrinkles aren’t exactly noticeable.

This week, though, our casual lifestyle ran smack into the reality of cross-country travel. Apparently, neither of us remembered that shoving three suitcases worth of clothing into one suitcase is a recipe for looking like we just got a two-for-one deal at Goodwill. This morning, I took one look at my spouse’s shirt and decided it was either fire up the iron or risk him being mistaken for a street performer. Then I looked at my own wardrobe and realized I wasn’t faring any better.

So, out came the hotel’s compact ironing board—the one that squeaks like a tortured goose every time you move it—and the complimentary iron that may or may not date back to the Eisenhower administration. I smoothed out the worst of the disasters, hung everything in the miniature closet, and, in a full circle moment, realized we’ve officially adopted my parents’ old trick of hanging “important outfits” from the back-window hook. Yes, the very one I once mocked.

Turns out, wisdom does come with age. And so does the ability to laugh at your own wrinkles—whether they’re in your shirts or on your face.