My mother irons her underwear

I am watching my mother do her weekly ironing. The basket isn’t overfilled, as mine would be, if I ever ironed. My mother doesn’t jog in the morning (“sweat is so unfeminine”). She is cautious when she makes spaghetti sauce (“why wear your food?”) and she never splashes through puddles when it rains (“watch where you walk!”)

But she does like to wear wrinkle-free clothing.

“Mum. Did you just iron your undies?” I ask, peering at the object of her intense focus.

She looks up from the ironing board, surprised.

“Of course.”

My mother, a woman who last had sex during the Reagan administration, wears full coverage cotton wonder-pants that are large enough to use as grocery bags, provided you knot the leg-holes. I admit, such couture can wrinkle in the wash. But when you are post-sixty and not prone to wearing your underwear as the outer layer of your outfit (superman style), who is going to know?

“Why?”

“Because I like to.”

How can I argue with that? But, even so, as I am trying to look forward to my new, carefree single life, I hope the underwear-ironing gene hasn’t transferred.