By SUSAN ANN CONNOR
Ironing was never my favorite chore. But sometimes it’s a necessity, especially when you can’t get to the cleaners and want to maintain a crisp look. It’s not that I’m iron-challenged, it’s just I never acquired a fondness for it. I’ll press, but only when I’m forced.
This week I was forced. Early one evening I received a call about an important meeting that was scheduled for next week. They wanted to see me “tomorrow.” Stuttering, I graciously accepted the change, hung up the phone and twirled into a newfangled yoga pose. Yikes! My VIP suit was weeping — begging for wrinkle repair. And there was nobody else to do it but me.
Destined for the ironing board, plus having other preparation to do, I canceled my dinner plans. Popping an energy bar, I muscled my way through the iron drudge. I pressed, pleated and poured myself into the work. Upon observation of the finished product, I felt pretty pleased and even gave the smooth suit a whistle. Then, off to bed I went in order to maximize my brain and beauty rest.
After dreaming I was sentenced alongside Martha Stewart to 30 years of ironing cotton collars, I woke up ready to go. Making my way down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of my garments and smiled. Lookin’ good.
There was plenty of primping time before heading out the door. Running through my inner checklist, I felt positive about the various grooming details. A final full-length mirror view gave me clearance for take-off.
I meticulously entered my car. The way I figured it, I was steam-lined and ply-proof. With a fair amount of dexterity, I swooped my legs under the steering wheel and settled in. Then I saw it. The security and smoosh apparatus. Da, dum, da, da... the safety belt.
Oh, no. My wardrobe was threatened. Big time. What was I thinking? I had forgotten how easily the straps mangle linen. What to do? I could just ignore the belt, but I dismissed that idea quickly. The only solution was to switch suits, but there was no time. So I moved on.
Delicately honoring my press job and holding my breath, I pulled the strap down and over, and clicked in. All I could hear was the snap, crinkle and crease. I felt like cereal. And brightening my morning further was the quintessential boob crunch. Many of you gals know exactly what I’m talking about.
Nils Bohlin, a Swedish engineer, invented the three-point seat belt. Having saved countless lives, it’s obviously a most prized patent. But I wonder if somehow our breasts might be spared the squish had a woman created this device? And would we possibly be enjoying wrinkle-free travel? If any female inventors are listening, perhaps they could take up the challenge.
By the way, women inventors rock. Consider what we’d do without the windshield wiper, paper bag, medical syringe, life raft, engine muffler, cordless phone, chocolate-chip cookie, brassiere, jock-strap and of course, the ironing board. This is just a smidgen of what women have already invented. But, now that we can own property (only since the 19th century in the United States) and get credit for our inventions, there’s no telling what we’ll create.
Anyway, despite crinkled clothes and a smooshed bosom, my meeting went well.
The safety belt might have put my apparel in danger, but it helped get me there alive. So, please buckle up. Lalalala... (Susan Ann Connor).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on January 21, 2005. Read the original PDF.