I have a bad track record when it comes to irons.
There is something evil about them that draws me in and forces me to do harm to inanimate objects.
I am going to go ahead and stereotype all irons as evil creatures here; yes, it has come to stereotyping.
It all started when I was two years old and my mom forced me to do my own ironing. I really wanted to wear my ruffled, bear top with matching ruffled shorts that day but they were wrinkly. So I did what any two-year-old would do; I turned on the iron and waited for it to get hot.
It was then that the iron influenced me with its evil ways to place the iron on top of my parent’s cedar hope chest.
My mom found the hope chest a minute later looking like this:
From that point on though, I wasn’t forced to iron my own clothing until I was four years old.
I consciously stayed away from irons until I was 21 years old. Eventually I had to give in because I was becoming a working woman, (aka: I had an internship that required me to iron my pants.)
One morning as I was waiting for the iron to heat up, I placed it on top of the ironing board. It was at that moment that the iron LEAPED off of the board and landed itself hot side down onto my cheap, rented carpet. The iron knew that this cheap, rented carpet would melt the second it released its evil, hot steam.
Before I knew it, the damage was done:
And once again, the evil iron made its mark upon the world.
