I really hate ironing. I’m not sure why, other than it’s One of Those Things that I don’t often mention, let alone do if I can help it. My psychological issues are many, I’ll admit freely, and the people I talk to about them are few. Regardless, ironing is about on par with doing the dishes, in my mind. Folding laundry, washing it, drying it, that’s fine. Putting away dishes is fine. But ironing and washing dishes . . . I used to start to hyperventilate, or I’d get a migraine and I’d have to go lie down. Now, I just hate them – but I can do them if I have to. It’s strange how that works, I suppose, and it would be interesting to see what brain chemistry causes such reactions . . . but mostly, it’s a pain in the ass. My sink is full of dirty dishes, and I’ll do anything I can think of to avoid washing them. I have a beautiful piece of linen that I just washed and dried that needs to be ironed and I’m sitting here blogging instead while the uncertainty of my day plagues me.
There’s more sewing to be finished for Vikings; Morgen’s outfit is done and Liana’s and Jerry’s are almost done, but mine isn’t even started. I have a beautiful piece of burgundy silk (one of the things I have to iron) for my under dress, and a nice cotton brocade in olive that matches one of the colors in everyone else’s fabric. – Update, since I was writing this earlier, and now it’s late at night and things have changed: My under dress is done but for finishing the neckline. My over dress is cut out. Everything for both girls and Jerry is finished. Huzzah!
Amusingly, there was probably more angst-laden stuff I had to say this morning, but nothing in particular now. Other than man, it feels good when I come home after a long day and see a message from a certain crush blinking at me, and man, I wish the guy who thinks he’s in love with me would move to another state again. It would make my life way easier, and we all want that, don’t we? I thought so.
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