Ever since I got married, I haven’t ironed clothes. I mean, marriage comes with benefits, right? And in my house, one of those benefits is a husband who irons. So for years, I’ve happily handed over anything that looked remotely wrinkled and carried on with my life. Now I’m on a trip by myself, and suddenly I’ve discovered two things: I may have forgotten how to iron. I am definitely too lazy to relearn. I’ve been walking around in rumpled clothes, convincing myself it’s a fashion statement. The worst part? I packed outfits that clearly require ironing. At home, that would have been someone else’s problem. Some husbands really do spoil their wives. You don’t fully appreciate it until you’re standing in a hotel room staring at a wrinkled shirt and wondering if hanging it in the bathroom during a hot shower counts as ironing. I miss my personal ironing department.
