Buying the best iron available gets you very little more than picking one out of the “Even We Can’t Unload These” bin at the local Good Will. That’s because irons are primitive creatures that do something so elemental that they are unevolvable, like sea sponges, hammers, and game show hosts.
This is especially ironic (get it?) because irons are constrained by the geometry of planes to be miserable at their job. They have to be small enough to maneuver into corners, but large enough so that you don’t feel like you’re scrubbing the deck of the USS Infinity with a toothbrush. We are geometry’s prisoner as we mass-press areas without folds or corners, and then become obsessive mice as we repeatedly throw ourselves against a tuck or crease.
All so we can have flat clothing.
What a waste. In two months in a tenth of the time we spend ironing, we could reverse the norms so that wrinkled fabrics are a sign of good breeding, and ironed clothing is the social equivalent of a 7-carat pinky ring.
And we have the perfect excuse for legitimizing our laziness. While we are replacing our lightbulbs with low-heat versions, we are cranking up the dial on our irons from Poly to Cotton to Globe Warmer. Wrinkles say you care more about the Earth than about The Man’s smoothness fetish.
Wrinkles are life! Life is Wrinkles!
Expect: 4
Reality: 1