Iron man battles the Wicked Wrinkles to the death. It just gets ugly.

November 24, 2009

I may have given the impression, such is my skill at being obedient, that there has always been a woman in my life, from my mother to The First Wife and, now, Viking Woman. The truth is, I was a bachelor for six years.

By bachelor I mean I was free to do anything I wanted. And by that I mean leaving stacks of unread newspapers where they fell, not having to shave every day because “it scratches,” and not being required to share coffee. Here on Planet Man, we pretty much call that “heaven.” Or is it “paradise”? I can never remember.

There were challenges, I won’t deny that. For instance, when it came to meals, if I couldn’t nuke it, toast it or boil it, I ate it raw. I think I pretty much invented sushi in the process.

There was one stretch for, oh I don’t know, two days where I decided to be good to my body and eat nothing but salads. I would use no electricity whatsoever and thus also save on one utility bill. Except I quickly grew bored with eating leaves and shoots and tendrils and eventually defaulted to my standard fare: buns slathered with peanut butter. And a tall, chilled glass of Diet Coke. Are you envious yet? How about hungry?

I coped rather well on my own, if I do say so myself. I rinsed the dishes in cold water at least once a week. I vacuumed the apartment every other month whether it needed it or not. Sometimes I remembered to take out the rubbish before the place started to smell like an abattoir.

I also eventually identified the strange creature perched in the linen closet. The one constructed of metal and plastic, with holes in the bottom and an electrical cord trailing from its ass. My first thought was “Who would invent such a weird-looking door stop?” before having it explained to me that this beast was, in fact, an iron.

You use it to — wait for it — iron your clothes.

How crazy is that?

I did, in fact, learn how to operate that strange mechanism. Mostly out of necessity, which is pretty much the only reason us inhabitants of Planet Man bother to adopt any new skills at all

I donned a shirt, tie and dress pants to cover sports when I worked for the Langley Times. Yes, it was a uniform of sorts but it said “I’m serious about my job here, people.” It also said — because I covered a lot of high school games — “I am not a pervert. Honest.”

My opposite number at The Advance tended to show up at events looking like he’d just come from the beach. Or from mucking out the stalls. I firmly believe people respected me more because I dressed, well, respectively. Even if, clad all in black in the middle of the summer, I looked like I was on my way to a job interview.

That was when I learned the great secret to ironing: It doesn’t eliminate the wrinkles at all; it simply moves them around. Once you learn to shift the wrinkles to the back of your clothes, your job is done. Because, when you think about it, everyone looks at you when you arrive but no one bothers glancing over their shoulder when you leave.

So there you have it, another valuable Life Lesson brought to by the friendly folk on Planet Man. Next week: Fun with knives and toasters. You’ll be shocked. I know I was.

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2 Responses to “Iron man battles the Wicked Wrinkles to the death. It just gets ugly.”

  1. Koleman said

    Good post Dad.

  2. Carla said

    You are a funny guy!

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