Ozzie, I'm a sucker for a pun. The iron story reminded me of one of the most shameful episodes of my entirely shameful past. It was late in my freshman year at UConn. I lived in Trumbull House in the Towers, a few of us privileged male frosh back then didn't have to live in the Jungle as basically almost all other freshmen men had to. Our laundry room was in the basement and I, like the other guys (guys only in the dorm back then), hung our laundry on the heating pipes to dry. Ironing was a dirty word, especially in the winter when a sweater could cover up the impossibly difficult ironing oxford material. I had a steady girl friend at the time.
Enter the shame. Our dorm was building a float as dorms did then for a parade that was connected to the Campus Community Carnival, a fund raising weekend event. The construction was done in the back of the dorm parking area. We were paired with a girls dorm from the old South Campus complex. I became friendly, but that was all from my perspective, with one of the girls, but she um, had the hots for me (excellent taste). It just happened that I had washed my clothes and they were drying out on the pipes. It was the last day of the project , the girl wanted a coke, the machine being in the laundry room, so we went in together to get one. She noticed the clothes and I mentioned that they were mine. The fatal question came next. "Would you like me to iron your shirts?" Heaven (or maybe it was Hell) opened its doors and I fell to temptation, even though it meant I would have to see the girl again to get my stuff back. There was only one way to answer her. "Yeah, hey that's great." Several days later, I went to pick up my shirts. Now, I was guilty enough to take her out for coffee first. It was the last time I saw her. The coup de grace was that, with beautifully pressed shirts flapping in the breeze on hangers, I want to see my girl friend who lived in Holcomb Hall and gave her some totally lame explanation for why I was wandering Storrs with my shirts. The irony (sorry Ozzie) is that these days, my wife has a bad hand, so I do all the ironing. I still hate it, but it is probably some sort of divine retribution.