The straight (and unwrinkled) truth

The iron is not my friend. I can count on 2 fingers how many times I iron in a year: one summer day and Easter (I would add Christmas, but luckily we wear sweaters). I have an aunt who has been known to iron her socks (she has no children). I have a mother who would throw the to-be-ironed articles into a round plastic laundry basket which would be tackled weekly (she has four kids); this is the same woman who would throw all of Dad's socks into one bottom drawer and entice us into a fun game of matching during Saturday morning cartoons (did I mention they were all brown, black, and navy?). I have a husband who, by the love of God, has all his button-downs cleaned and pressed at the dry cleaners. My idea of ironing is throwing it back in the dryer with a damp wash cloth and hoping for the best. I have bought clothing that I've worn once, washed into a wrinkled mess, and then hung on a hanger until it went out of style. Maybe by the time it comes back into style, gravity will have worked out all the wrinkles for me.

So here it is, Easter Eve, and the traditions of the day have been completed: the eggs are colored, the baskets put out for the bunny, and the boys' Easter shirts are pressed and hung.

Happy Easter !