iron maiden

I hate ironing. Most of my clothes just don't need it. And, I'll admit, the few items that do require the despised task, quite unfortunate since they are often the most beautiful, get worn less often. Strangely enough, I don't mind ironing sheets, usually once they're on the bed, (a handy trick).... warning though, once you try ironed sheets you won't want to go back! There's nothing quite like sliding into freshly laundered and pressed linens after a long day of work! However, I digress.

I am not always aware of things I should be, like for instance, where the iron might be stored when it is not in use. It is usually jammed into the side of the closet somewhere (remember, 400 sq ft coach house = not quite enough room for storage!) and sometimes requires standing on a chair to be retrieved. Such was the case when I decided it was time for the closet to be reorganized.

I'm sure you have better things to be doing than reading about my closet cleaning adventures, so I'll get right to it. I had pulled out all of my sweaters, refolded and organized them, and was beginning to put them back in their proper place, heavy just about out of season sweaters on the bottom shelf, when "WHOMP" it hit me. Hit, I suppose, could be deemed quite the understatement. In fact, upon more reflection, flattened would be far, far more appropriate.

It had come out of nowhere, and left me hunched over and struggling to get my wind back. "Is everything okay?" I spoke aloud, to myself. And I began what could only be described as the hurt check test. Squiggled my fingers. Check. Bent my arms. Check. Wiggled my toes. Check. Gingerly moved each shoulder. Check. Carefully twisted my neck from side to side. Check. Gently arched my back. Check. Everything seemed to be in working order which left me free to get down to business. What the heck had just pummeled me in the back??!!

Gently rising up from my hunched, winded stance, I looked over and saw this crime scene:
It does not take a brain surgeon to determine that the stuffed monkey, although looking quite pathetic laying face down after his fall, is not the culprit. Only the iron could have been capable of causing me to randomly exhale a spontaneous, huge "HUHHH" in the moment it bounced off of my back to land so eloquently on the floor. Only a point 5 deduction for the cord being slightly unwound.

"I was ironed," I thought to myself, a smirk sliding across my face. "I wonder if it'll bruise?" Nope. Nothing but the most subtle, faint purple line across my left shoulder blade the next day. At least the closet is organized. How ironic. Hehehe :)