When I do my washing, I even take the trouble to separate the whites from the blacks, then I hang out my washing, taking care to hang it properly on the drying rack. These are tasks I don't really enjoy, but they have to be done. In short, chores. But there's one step I refuse to do: ironing.
My life in a nutshell? On a quest to broaden my horizon. I love discovering and learning new skills and I see a chance to experience something new in everything – be it travelling, reading, cooking, movies or DIY.
Opinion
This is a subjective opinion of the editorial team. It doesn't necessarily reflect the position of the company.
When I moved to Zurich last year, I really cleaned out my belongings. In particular, I got rid of an ironing board and iron that my then-boyfriend's grandmother had left me. Not prepared to embody a 50s stereotype or a life without creases, I in turn passed these two relics on to a friend, who must use them at least once a year. For me, their use was limited to frantically ironing my boyfriend's shirts before weddings. It's definitely not easy to break out of the outdated stereotypes. Love, that softener of female emancipation.
My decision to do without ironing is a practical choice, before being a political one. I simply don't see the point. Air drying, clothes hanging, already does a lot of the work. I quickly shake out the T-shirts and hang them on the line. Jeans are no problem and my only two blouses end up on a hanger. With this technique, my clothes are even less creased than if I'd ironed them. In any case, the sheets are as wrinkled as when they come out of the washing machine after a night out, so ironing them would be pointless. And then there's underwear, where the concept of ironing reaches the height of its absurdity. For a long time I thought it was a myth that people ironed their pants and thongs. Until I met one. From the outside, you can't see the sometimes troubled inner lives of the people you meet. But the problems are there, hidden beneath the surface, and I can't imagine what would drive people to iron items that, as their name so aptly suggests, are worn underneath their clothes and are therefore invisible. Is it the fear of being judged for unironed panties in the event of an emergency consultation with a doctor? Or is it the idea that perfectly ironed underwear might make a strong impression on a potential partner? I don't know.
There's no denying it, this little shar-pei has far more creases than my clothes.
As for me, I've chosen to live in harmony with the creases. I don't let any supposed imperfection get to me. I don't feel inferior because the sleeve of my t-shirt isn't perfectly smooth. Wrinkles are a symbol of joie de vivre. And the same goes for wrinkles. While you're ironing, beer in hand and a smile on your face, wrinkles included, I'm toasting to the great evening ahead. With people who won't notice that your underwear is ironed and mine isn't. And if they do notice, it's a sign to me that we'll never know what might have become of this friendship.
I have to admit that I deliberately buy materials that are fairly easy to care for. Fabrics that I can machine wash and that won't look like crumpled paper after washing. You have to be clever. I don't complicate my life unnecessarily. She's already doing a great job of making my life miserable on her own. I've cut out of my life all the non-mandatory daily tasks that don't give me any satisfaction. I don't believe in self-flagellation. I prefer to devote myself to things I enjoy. In the interests of transparency, I have to admit that I've also had moments of doubt and where the wrinkles have overwhelmed me more than I would have liked. For example, I couldn't bear the sight of a blouse at the bottom of a travel rucksack after a three-week holiday. But even in extreme cases like this, I didn't need an iron. A hairdryer does the job just fine. All you have to do is hang the garment up and smooth it out roughly, and the hot air does the rest. The result may not be perfect, but it's certainly presentable.
I'm not judging the people who have chosen to iron. Maybe some people even enjoy the chore. Maybe for some, impeccably smooth clothes are a symbol of self-confidence. Perhaps the act of ironing promotes a healthy mind for others. All these reasons are valid. I just want to give you food for thought. We shouldn't blindly adopt all the supposedly normative concepts. We can also question their validity. We have the right to put our pleasure before chores. Leave your ironing board for a moment and think about it. Even when you're sitting down, the effects of your toil wear off in 30 minutes at most, and then we're all the same.
