ironing dress shirts

Hey hun, I’d just like you to know that the cuffs on these things are a pain in the ass. Oh, and don’t get me started on the “steamer” bit– dribbling all over, leaking on the ironing board, are we sure it’s not just a very hot, useful baby? Anyway, with any luck, this will be the last time I try to send you to work looking crisp. Or at least not homeless.

Yes tomorrow I begin orienting myself to pay for people to yell at me. Again. Music to your ears, right honey? Just as we were getting accustomed to nice things like movies, grown-up furniture, and foods other than ramen, I pull the rug out from under you. (Literally. I was going to sell the rug to pay for a day of Torts but nobody would take it.) Yep for the next three years I will bring nothing to this relationship but crippling debt and bitchiness. Kind of like having a trophy wife but without the nice skin.

Hopefully though, when this is all over, once a week we will wad up our dress shirts together and dump them in a bag, laughing about that time I somehow managed to iron my foot. Then some fellow will charge us out the ass to do what I’m doing right now: make our fledgling existence as twenty-somethings stumbling forward in the world seem right and good, free of wrinkles and smelling of starch.

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