Sheets

I iron when I'm stressed. I iron late at night in a tank top and underwear. I iron when I can't sleep. I tear all the sheets from my bed, grab fresh sheets out of the cupboard and flip down my ironing board from the back of my bedroom door.

Most women hate ironing. It's a vestige of male dominance and typically female housework. There's the possibility of getting burned and really, who minds a few wrinkles? I don't care though. I don't care if ironing is a throwback to June Cleaver and chauvinism.

When I iron, I'm thrown back to my year in Thailand. As I stand in my tank top and underwear, with my iron in hand, everything stops. It's warm and humid. The steam curls around my hand. There are palm trees outside the window of my mind. The air hangs heavy and I can hear cows in the streets, roosters outside my door and dogs howling. A pink gecko stares at me from the wall.

Suddenly,

I can breathe again.

I'm ironing the flat sheet now. I told myself that I would only iron the first foot and a half of fabric. It's the part that peeks over the blanket. The only part that matters, aesthetically. I was lying to myself. Smoothing out the wrinkles is addictive and I know that I'll end up ironing the entire sheet. Every inch will be smooth and soft. 400 thread count, egyptian cotton. I love my sheets. I used to dream about having sheets like these.

When I'm done ironing, I'll finish making my bed and then I'll gingerly climb between the sheets and try not to wrinkle them again