I love my wife. I truly do. I like to do things that make her happy. I like to do a little more than she expects, so that when she comes across the little thing I’ve done she’ll think, “He must really love me.”
And so today, I decided to iron the dust ruffle she has owned for a few years and never used, so that I could then put it on the bed and, you guessed it, surprise her pleasantly.
There’s the problem with that: ironing a dust ruffle is a hellish, evil task which takes a very long time to do. What’s more this particular dust ruffle has little pleats in it which I suppose was some black-hearted designer’s idea of a “nice touch.” I am hereby offering a hit contract on that designer. (I do not know his/her identity, so just go ahead and start taking them all out. You know, to be safe.)
I don’t know if my decision to iron this demon’s hanky was my first mistake. I think my first mistake may have been to allow myself to get sucked into the dust ruffle subculture in the first place. I mean, so what! Some dust get’s under the bed. Better there than, say, in my tuna sandwich. Let the dust have a party under there! Let it host the 2016 Dust Party National Convention. Anything is preferable to spending an hour fighting with each ungodly inch of this foul creation.
Alright, I’ll concede that there are only three sides to iron. The top is mercifully devoid of any visible protuberance. But three are like…three too many, in my opinion. If it weren’t for my corn chip and Coke breaks every fifteen seconds or so, I would have surely lost what little remains of my mind by now.
But I love my wife. (Did I mention that?) So I guess I’ll get off the computer and go tackle the remaining two sides. (Yes, I did all this whining after only de-wrinkling one panel). Because I love my wife.
Oh, and I love my wife.