Today will see me elbow deep in domestic labor, not something I generally look forward too, but a necessity in times when living alone and without aid makes such efforts a requirement.
The most time consuming of these tasks ir ironing, removing creases from the various clothing items that are washed, dried and ready for suitable storage. Try as I might I have never successfully got over my inherited phobia to non-ironed shirts, sheets, towels, underclothes, nicely pressed trousers, and kilt pleats, all either correctly folded and shelved or placed on appropriate hangers and hung in marshal order in the closet. I experimented with drip dry, no pressing necessary, quite the savoir of time and effort in the seventies and eighties, even dabbled with the wrinkly look, very hippy, nuevo chic, but frankly wholly unsatisfactory.
So at quite the ripe old age my hand still wields a steam iron, for no other purpose than to satisfy a dated esthetic, a sad but quaint reminder cultural times that considered adequate servility a measure of success.