Ironing and Vagus
Had a ton of errands and chores to do today. Unfortunately, I had run out of clean dress shirts to wear. Hence, laundry day.
Now, after having been away from home for 12 years, and away from Malaysia for 8, I consider myself fairly independent and somewhat domesticated. I'm a survivor. I mean, I cook decently (ah, what the heck, to hell with modesty, I cook pretty darn well, thank you very much), able to bake a pie or two, I clean pretty well (in a guy's dictionary, 'pretty well' means I don't live in a pigsty, my slippers don't stick to the floor and the toilet is flushed at least once a week).
I do my own laundry. I even know to separate the whites from the coloured (learnt from experience. I still have that bright patchy-pink shirt hanging in my basement).
Hell, thanks to my camping days and over 20 camping and hiking trips (including Mt. Ledang, Angsi and Kinabalu) I can even make basic furniture out of small trees and rope, start a fire with just 3 matches. Taking a dump in the bushes and using the leaves to clean up wouldn't unnerve me.
But if there is absolutely one thing, one thing that I hate to do, cannot do, is iron.
Someone once told me, the definition of agony is 'sliding down a razor blade on your balls'. I'm not sure how he learnt that. But I think I'd pick that over ironing.
Which explains why 90% of my clothes are wrinkle-free. Though the lines do start forming after you've worn them enough. Even though they're supposed to be wrinkle-free (I guess ageing affects everyone. Along those lines, maybe they can coat clothes with botox? Or make the steam irons spew botulinum? It'll be worth the money)
So, when it comes to my future mate, my one criteria will be: MUST LIKE IRONING.
(And no, I haven't the foggiest idea who the babe is. Some Japanese hottie I found online)