Now, about ironing...

I feel that I need to explain something about myself here. Present the matters as they are; bare my soul, so to say. Although the thing is about ironing, it really is about psyche: this mysterious something that drives, irritates and complicates us all. I can already imagine the sighs: 'goodness, woman, what is with you and all the drama...?'
There is nothing like some Polish spirit to add drama to the mundane and, according to many, the dispensable. Exactly; the dispensable...
I made a few references to housework in my latest posts: ironing in particular. And I admit - I do iron, most of my and hubby's clothes. Regularly, religiously, probably quite well too. And once Zofia is with us, I will iron her tiny onesies and such as well. But I have learnt to keep this habit to myself, rather (till today). Why? It seems that noone irons any more! I noticed this already in my previous, English life. Any mention of enjoying such activities met with a smirk, a dubious gaze, a shrug of: there is no helping this one...
What added further piquancy to my feelings on the matter were comments made by a popular English radio DJ, Chris Moyles. In his 'humorous' tirade on Polish women, he summarised that they were really only good for two purposes: one was ironing, and the other ... I will leave without comment. Mr Moyles' comments were protested by many Polish women, me included. He never apologised, and the whole thing was quickly forgotten. Since his little outburst Mr Moyles managed to insult many more important people: including celebrities, gay people, disabled people, Americans, other foreigners, women in general, in other words - all those with qualities he does not possess, and continues to do so until today.
The comment which I posted for Mr Moyles to read contained something to the effect of: I am not sure about his second observation, but as to ironing: I would never volunteer to iron his shirt - too much work! Goodness, the man is my age, and yet his shirts look like tents. He is carrying some weight around, which I kindly pointed out. Clearly, my hurt ego stood in the way of any sound criticism of his 'humour'. But what if there was something in it? Is there something inherently Polish in enjoying ironing?
This question strikes me again now, living in the American South. The new friends to whom I mentioned that I indeed regularly iron our clothes, looked at me with disbelief. Who does that any more? It seems that here in the South one either: a. has it done, or b. does not worry about it.
Is ironing a completely unnecessary, dispensable, and certainly delegable, activity? Am I a relict, holding on to the distant memories of women's lot? Many a time it became clear to me that us, Polish women, are somewhat inclined to doing things the old-fashioned way. Sad broads who do not get the whole empowerment of women thing.
Perhaps, perhaps...
Is there anything more to ironing than the harsh sweaty reality of feminine bondage? Certainly there is! How can I put into words the delights of creative thinking when one's mind is free and one's body is totally absorbed in the process of making beautiful what it rough and wrinkly? It is rejuvenation, beautification of one's surroundings without much effort and with no cost attached... My best ever ideas I've had while ironing: ideas for my books, for my life, and those good for nothing but equally fun.

And here I land back at the psyche: with the mind free to roam, one learns plenty about this very mind: about its features normally hidden under the cluster of distractions. Who knows what can be discovered there?
Ironing: under-appreciated and yet thoroughly recommended by me - a traditional broad who enjoys it.