Anyone who knows me at all is familiar with how much I love to iron. In the past I have refused to leave the house without first pressing everything I'm wearing, and a significant part of getting ready for school at the beginning of each week has included a Sunday night ironing session of a week's worth of potential outfits. For my thirtieth birthday Jim Browne got me neither jewelry nor flowers but the top-of-the-line Rowenta iron and I could not have been more delighted.
Living in Yosemite as I have been for the past ten weeks has not been so conducive to pressing my clothes. Since returning to civilization here in Berkeley a week or so ago I have continued to wear the exact same set of H&M tank tops and Gap shorts that I've worn all summer...until yesterday when I reserved a Zipcar, drove to my storage space in Alameda, and dragged home a trio of boxes labeled "things I'll want when I get home from camp".
Ahh, how luxurious it felt to get Rebecca's iron out of the laundry room, plug it in and hear the familiar sound of steam gushing forth at the simple push of a button. My green JCrew chinos, unearthed as full folds as an origami paper crane from one of the big cardboard containers that now take up my entire room, hang smooth as silk from my waist as I sit here typing this and at least one small bit of order has been reassuringly restored in my world as a result.
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