Diary
It's taken me some time to perfect my method for pressing these shirts. That these shirts needed pressing was, in fact, something of an unpleasant surprise to me. I had been searching for some cheap white shirts to replace the increasingly tamari stained batch i'd been wearing to work for several months. They're really one of the most annoying aspects of my job, these shirts. They have to be white, which means that, inevitably, they quickly end up stained by various food products and need replacing far before their stitching has lived a full life. It's due to this that i can't bear spending much for them. So when i found a whole rack of them for eight dollars each i yelped with glee and hurriedly grabbed up an armful. This was not the first occasion where joy silenced sense and i doubt it will be the last. You see, i had intended to remember not to buy 100% cotton shirts; i recalled my intent only after i pulled the shirts, wrinkled beyond recognition from the dryer and, with an exasperated sigh, laid them out on the board to press/punish them for all the troublesome ironing sessions i foresaw. I imagined the iron as an instrument of torture and the steam's slight squealing to be the shirts shrieking for mercy.
"Oh, if anything of mine needs ironing i just throw it out," said Timi, my boss, when i shared with her my dilemma. "I have better things to do with my time than ironing..." I found her philosophy very tempting, but i'd spent forty dollars on the damn things and couldn't see fit to discard them. The money wasn't the only matter on my mind though; my own philosophical underpinnings were at work as well. In our society convenience is king. We spend our time inventing things that'll do things for us so we'll have more time to invent things to do other things. The goal, so far as i can tell, is to eliminate all tasks that pilfer our pleasure to make more time for activities that augment it. Behind this endeavor is the belief that there is always some option more pressing and pleasurable than the options which are presently before us. So far as i can tell such an attitude leads only to distraction.
We all love distraction though, don't we? I know i do. I live for it. It's my drug of choice. If only someone could bottle pure liquid distraction we could all stop trying so hard, sprawl out on threadbare red velvet sofas, and sip and sniff our way out to sea. But what about taking pleasure in the task at hand? What about inhabiting our present; taking care to make each moment count no matter how banal it may seem? You see, some time ago i decided to be wary of recipes prescribing shortcuts to satisfaction and to challenge myself to go against the grain of conformist convenience. Remembering these convictions i began to see my clump of creased cotton as a Zen challenge of sorts, and, more importantly, as an opportunity to live up to my own quasi-ludditical creed.
My mind, it seems, is permanently preoccupied with a perpetual juggling act of tasks, timing, and to do lists. I rarely find myself engaged in an activity that precludes multitasking; at present only two such pursuits come to mind: intercourse and ironing. To compare the two may seem facile, but there's more than steam shared between them. Ironing, i've discovered, is a task requiring great care and attention to be done well, especially ironing shirts. Even the slightest lapse of attention can leave one's garment with a deep, glaring crease more stubborn than the several smoothed moments before or a burnt brown triangle shaped brand. Though not quite sensual, it is sensuous: the searing sound and smell of steam the climate of a tactile topography of seams, buttons, and textiles. Seemingly tedious this task so absorbs my senses that it stills my mind's ceaseless shifting and this is a rare accomplishment indeed. Not that ironing deadens thought; quite the opposite. It' something of a game and to win requires adherence to a unique set of rules and ordered steps. With this particular batch of shirts i've even invented my own rules to add a dash of ease; it's taken me some time to perfect them. After varied dryer temps did nothing to help the shirts emerge less wrinkled i started ironing them damp, straight from the washer. But since the climate of my apartment is somewhat similar to that of the Sahara i can only iron one or two before the remaining three or four dry while waiting in line to be next on the board. So now i either wash them in batches of two or set the board up near the washer to take the shirts out one at a time.
The process has become something of a ritual, one which i appreciate and at times actually enjoy, when i can forget all the other distractions i might otherwise be engaged in. It is also a ritual i feel brings me more fully into the reality of my life, reminding me of where i actually am and of all that must be achieved/endured for me to arrive at where/who i aim to be. Most importantly, it reminds me that there are, in fact, as Timi said, more important things i could be doing with my time than ironing, which, ironically, i don't always remember when i'm not ironing and i lose my time to distractions instead.
