Somehow, I've turned into a man who owns and uses an iron.
It's entertaining how some objects are infused with an irrational, almost mystical significance to us, well beyond their actual import. Cliche examples include things like floral curtains in the kitchen, a minivan, or a mortgage. In one way or another, they represent a surrender of the personal freedoms and happy-go-lucky attitudes that we've left behind. They generally make perfect sense on a rational level and oughtn't stress us out, but for some reason, they do.
A prime example from my prior experience was dessert plates. I'd been engaged for a little over a year and my mother-in-law-to-be (a title which requires almost as many dashes as she inspired me to take) and fiancee were busily sifting through a thrift store looking for things to bring home to furnish our house; as she'd moved in with me shortly after college, the majority of the items in it were mine, and, to be fair, the place had a decidedly bachelorish feel to it, even two moves, two hundred miles, and a year later.
So, on a rational level, I understood this needed to happen. The cat tree. The cat to go with it. The little towels and soaps for company. A hundred little things that she needed to make the place feel like hers, and, by and large, I was perfectly happy with the process.
Then came the battle of the dessert plates.
Something in me just utterly dug in its heels and quietly screamed bloody murder at the very notion of a set of tiny little plates set aside just for desserts. In retrospect, it was a rather silly thing to get up in arms about, but in the moment, this was my Alamo. These dainty little things had no place in my home! And, what's more, they were irrational- what purpose could they possibly serve that a full size plate couldn't? This far, and no further!
To my credit, I lost that battle rather quickly and quietly, but I still remember the soul-shrinking revulsion at all they represented.
Fast forward to today, when I caught myself singing while I ironed a set of dress shirts. With an iron I'd gone out and bought intentionally. Wearing a set of dress shirts I'd gotten on sale and was quite excited about. Echoes of the malcontented teenage metalhead reverberated around my brain, not even bothering to speak, just withered me with a disgusted and disbelieving stare.
Of course, I can say a lot of things in favor of it. I like to look good. Wrinkled dress shirts look tacky. At least I don't have to wear a tie with them or cut my hair. I'll go ahead and wail on my guitar afterward, just to demonstrate that I still can.
But still, I have to wonder... When on earth did I become a man who owns an iron?
