When I decided to move to Toronto and live away from home for the first time, a powerful thought came into my mind:
I need an iron.
I’d like to point out that this thought came before “I need a place to live” or “I need to be able to feed myself“. Granted, these things are pretty important considerations as well – but I was consumed by the fact that I simply needed an iron.
It may also be worth noting that I hardly ever ironed my clothes in the 24 years of living with my parents. I probably ironed as often as I used a glue gun. Actually, I used a glue gun much, much more frequently. So really, I needed a glue gun way more than I needed an iron. But actually, the thought of buying a glue gun never even crossed my mind.*
I was in the middle of researching affordable irons when my mom came home from the store with a “moving” gift for me. AN IRON. This gem of a woman bought me my first iron! It was even my favourite colour. My mother, ladies and gentlemen.
Then the next issue struck. I needed an ironing board to be able to use my new purple iron! So ok, most people would just go out and buy an ironing board. But I had very little money or space for such luxuries. I had, by now, worked out where I would be living. And it was small. Very small. Very, very small. So small that even those little ironing boards from Ikea wouldn’t have worked in my space. I decided to turn to Pinterest for inspiration. In the end I pulled a few DIY all-nighters and fashioned myself an ironing board that tripled as a night stand AND a laptop table.
Now, I must have somehow made ironing synonymous to being a real adult, because otherwise I can’t understand this obsession with ironing obsession. Either way, I moved to Toronto proudly armed with a purple iron and a homemade ironing board/night stand /laptop table hybrid.
Now let’s fast forward 9 months.
I have ironed twice. The second time being yesterday morning.
Yesterday I had an important meeting with a client’s parents. Talking to parents has always been a bit of a fear of mine. I have always seen them as authority figures whose every word had to be held onto and respected. Today the roles would be reversed and they would be holding onto every word I said. Cool right? Nope, terrifying.
But, hey. Sometimes, you just have to wake up, put your big girl pants on and tackle the day.
Luckily I knew the trade secret to being an adult. Ironing. I pulled out my purple iron and my makeshift ironing board and ironed the shit out of my shirt. I even pulled out a blazer and ironed that too. Next I sent my boyfriend the following text:
"Ironed my clothes. Feel like an adult."
And went on with my day.
I got on the streetcar (which is an everyday adventure in and of itself) and eventually got to the office. And then the greatest thing happened. I took off my jacket, and my shirt was wrinkly. It was f*cking wrinkly. I ironed my shirt, and then 30 minutes on the streetcar wrinkled it. This is around the time when impostor syndrome sets back in. As I shook the successful parents’ hands it was all I could do to restrain myself from yelling “I SWEAR I IRONED MY CLOTHES THIS MORNING!”
Obviously that wouldn’t have given off the professional air I was going for.
And there your have it friends. Being a twenty-something year old is a lot like ironing. You go through great lengths to tell the world you have all the kinks worked out…but in the end, the wrinkles show anyway.
So, in the wise words one of my best friends:
“Well fuck it. You should just set [your clothes] on fire and give up.”
* I have since bought a glue gun…