Neither does leopard print. And while we are at it lets add ‘wrinkles on youthful skin’. The last was a suggestion from a colleague when I asked them the very simple question, what doesn’t crease? Out of the intensive survey I conducted (I asked a whole three people. Including myself) one doesn’t iron anything at all, one irons the base minimum, and one irons her sheets.
I leave you all to guess which one is me.
In university ironing was this foreign, time wasting activity which no one did (unless they lived close to home). It was where I learnt the all-important skill of wearing bras more than once before washing them. Until Uni this was a massive no-no, as dirty as wearing the same knickers more than once. But in the hallowed halls of freedom and filth, there was no mum making sure I put my clothes in the wash, or doing my washing. So I stopped putting clothes in the wash and I only washed clothes when the unlimited supply of knickers turned out to be limited.
So about once in a blue moon I would wash every single item of clothing I owned in a normal sized washing machine. It surprises me to know that once upon a time everything I owned was the same size as one load of washing. I would wait patiently for it to finish spinning and then pull out my clothes airer and spend more time artfully arranging my socks then I did on sleep. Of course I couldn’t dry it outside since I went up North to further my education (in the grand scheme of this country’s Geography, it wasn’t actually all that North) and it was raining outside. Plus my housemate would leave his clothes outside for days at a time – no matter what the weather and almost always the clothes line outside was otherwise engaged.
Since everything was drying in my room where there wasn’t natural sunlight or gentle breezes, it would all take about a week to dry. My room would smell of fabric softener the whole time – it’s not a great smell when fresh and definitely not a great smell when it’s mingled with air and had stake babies. I’d put on clothes while they were still damp, waving a fond farewell to the tradition of ironing.
Plus it’s not like anyone could tell they weren’t ironed.