My clothes need Botox

This morning, because we were going to Kindermusik, I got all ready for the day and realized that the new shirt I wanted to wear was a wee wrinkly.

So I got out the iron and ironing board and IRONED MY SHIRT.

For those of you who know me, you probably just fell out of your chair and are now frantically checking outside for any pink pork flying by your house.

I just don't iron. Ever. My everyday wardrobe is made up of shirts that don't wrinkle and designer jeans. Yoga pants and T-shirts round out the choices, and then I have some dresses and dressy clothes in the closet for going out or special occasions – and if they need to be ironed, they usually also need to be dry-cleaned, so I just leave them in the bag until it’s time to wear them.

When you work from home, there's barely a need to get dressed in the morning, much less in something that needs to be pressed into submission with a hot metal object.

One of my rules about working from home has always been that I get up and get dressed in the morning. Something about working in my PJs always makes me feel unproductive. Not sure what the difference between boxers and another pair of shorts is in the summer, but let's not play the semantics game.

I am so averse to ironing that I could not even find our iron in Chicago a few weeks ago. Our friends, Gina and JD, were staying at our house and JD needed to iron his shirt before heading to a wedding shower in their honor.

I looked in the places I thought our iron might live, but alas, it was not in any of them. I apologized and said maybe he could just hang it on the back of the door while he showered and perhaps the wrinkles would steam out.

(Since that time, I have stumbled upon the iron; it was hiding in the bathroom closet on the top shelf. So next time someone needs it, I will have the Internet remind me where it is.)

It also works out well that Josh doesn't have any clothes that need to be ironed. He mostly wears polo shirts and khakis to work, jeans and non-needing-ironing shirts on the weekends.

"But khakis need ironing," you might say.

Not so much. I routinely send my husband off to work with wrinkly pants. He doesn't do his own laundry, much less whip out the iron, so too bad for him. I am sure his co-workers don't even notice. OK, that's a lie, I know they notice. But I am so beyond caring.

Poor Josh. His wife neglects his pants.

There are so many jokes just waiting to be made there, I will just decline to make any of them.