Getting ready to go out, for me, involves many a process. There’s the plucking, the grooming, the showering, the shaving, the full body moisturizing compress. Selecting clothes takes several committees and seventeen models who strut past with different variations until I am completely satisfied. What going out does not involve, however, is ironing. I hate ironing. I never do it.
Lauren does it all the time:
“You might want to iron your shirt,” she said tonight.
“Uh no,” I said, “it’s supposed to have a wrinkled look.”
“Ok,” she said, shaking her head and sparying her starch.
The only starch I need, I’ll have you know, is a potato.
