My Wifely Duty

I hate ironing. I hate it with a passion. It makes my heart sad just to see an iron in my hand.

Sad, cranky,disgusted; they all work.

Yet every once in a while I have this feeling toward my hubby & I don't know what comes over me but...it's like...I don't understand...like I want to do something nice for him.

There's this whole social code that we adhere to where we don't wear wrinkly clothes in public. Dresses, button-ups, t-shirts, yoga pants, dress pants...they're all wrinkle-free before we leave the house. My children have thankfully inherited my OCD-induced hatred of wrinkles & they won't wear anything wrinkly either.

Hubby irons his work shirts & I have had older wives ask me why he is doing my job. Bwahaha. Really? Have they just met me? My job? Dude, the day I advertise my ironing business & someone pays me for it, that's the day it becomes my job.

Every once in a while that odd feeling takes over & I surprise the hubs by pressing his shirts for him. I refuse to do his dress pants. Sorry, ain't happen'. I'm not that nice.

I made sure to get proof of my nice deed because I never know when I'll need to tell someone, "See, I do nice things."

That is hubby's shirt. No, he's not a refeeree in his spare time. That is our iron. No, I didn't have to ask him where it was. And that is my arm. I know, because that's my tattoo & my awesome thumb.

And in the first pic? Those are hubby's wonderfully starched & pressed shirts hanging up behind me. I have done my wifely duty. 

And I bet he still wants sex after all that. Wifely duties are never really done.