Happy With Myself?

Ah, my righteousness revealed! Ironing! I love to iron. Instant gratification at my fingertips; something that I can make perfect. I iron, then hang it up and stand in my closet and look at my wonderful creation. Really. My friends would marvel at my ability and tease me for my diligence with something so silly. I just grin and say something about it being something I just have to do. I would shake my head at their inability and non-diligence with their family's easiest way to put on airs. My righteousness is so good, theirs is so inept. It's just beautiful. Or at least it used to be. I blame what happened on Felix. He broke his stinking thumb (on purpose, by the way) in June. Everything just fell apart after that incident. Somehow I couldn't keep up with my ironing anymore. I had my corner pile in the bedroom and it kept growing larger and larger until I had more ironing than laundry. Then we moved out to the village. I, of course, thought that I would just iron one day out there. Two piles of ironing about 2 feet tall. One day it finally occurred to me that I was not going to get it done. So I hung it up. Wrinkled. My righteousness revealed. How ironic. And stupid. It's ironing, right? Who freaking cares? In my zeal for perfection and the endless search for instant gratification I had failed. Again. Why is ironing clothes such a hangup for me? Not sure. It still irritates me that there are wrinkled clothes hanging up in my closet. Stop shaking your head at me. Oh, it's laughter? Well, that's alright, I guess.