When I moved into my loft last year, I felt extraordinarily sophisticated to have opted for a combination washer-dryer unit. So space-saving. So 21st century. So European.
Cut to several months later, when the pioneer urban dweller begins to understand why the washboard and clothesline endured for so many years after washing machines came into existence. Sometimes, more technology isn't necessarily better. A single dime left in a pants pocket threw this clever little unit into a three-month tailspin.
Even now, back in working order, the combo device has one flaw pretty much unforgiveable to any homosexual more than three years out of college: it leaves everything wrinkled like granddad after four hours in a hot tub. Even a brand new, professional grade iron and padded ironing board can't get the wrinkles out of some fabrics.
One was faced with essentially three choices: a) learn to love, and perhaps even aestheticize, wrinkles; b) develop a newfound respect for polyester and blended fabrics; or c) seek professional help. As a gay man, C was the only option.
Before you ask who my therapist is, I don't mean that kind of professional help. I mean White Way.
I now take all my dress shirts to White Way for laundering. At $2 a shirt, that can get pretty pricey, but think of the cost of hours spent ironing while watching Prison Break, not to mention the cost of missing the little HD details of Wentworth Miller's sweaty pores because your attention is divided.
Having my shirts done for me feels both quaint and empowering. Quaint, as I have a strange new relationship with my Oklahoma-born cleaner, whom I see once every two weeks. It feels like the 50s, to have a relationship with your dry-cleaner. To actually say more than "Dropping off some shirts." Empowering, in that those precious hours watching TV are now spent cuddling my dog and sipping bourbon instead of hunching over an ironing board and cursing the properties of linen.
For the record, I did try ironing my sheets for a while. I mean, they looked SO BAD. But after discussing it with Angus, it appeared he had no particular preference for smooth sheets. So until I've got someone pickier than the little furball in my bed, I am adopting the stance that wrinkled sheets are sexy. And slimming.
I had one of these when I lived in Tokyo, almost 10 years ago. Loved it but had to iron everything, too. Still, I'd kill for one now! I always wondered why they don't sell more of these in the U.S.
Posted by: Susan | February 23, 2008 at 07:44 AM