Yesterday i awoke with a splitting headache at 5am and consequently called in sick and slept in till 2pm. Upon awakening, I leaped out of bed like Athena from Zeus’ forehead, and realized that I felt great. Insert superlative here! I decided to make the most of my enshortened day, and so cleaned up my room, tearing through it like a tidal wave of virulent acidic acid, and cleaned it up good.

Upon doing so, I realized, in consequence, that I had a large amount of button up shirts that, while clean, were UNIRONED. And thus unusable. Hoisting them over my shoulder, I trekked into the living room and bust out the ironing board. I heated up the iron. I laid the shirts out on the couch, and turned on the TV. Loaded up episode 15 of Dexter, Season two, and began to iron like it was my business.

Ah, for the pleasing hiss and glide of the iron over my wrinkled shirts! The deliberate manner in which I turned the cuffs over, smoothed down the flanks, inverted the collar! For each pass of my iron doomed wrinkles to oblivion, and though I ironed slow and ironed steady, twas a great pleasure, a soothing investment of my time in a productive activity, a leisurely battle against entropy. All the time and throughout my ironing I watched the travails of Dexter amount, and before I knew it some three hours had passed (I took a sex survey for 45 minutes over the phone in the middle of it) and I’d ironed five shirts.

Now, I know that’s not a record amount. But it had become a sort of meditative trance, my leaning in low so as to watch the iron recede away from me along the length of a sleeve, hunched almost obsessively over the board as I hissed with pleasure along with the iron, dancing around the board so as to straighten, arrange, smooth out and place the shirts in an optimum arrangement.

Domesticity. I love it.

About once a year.