When I pray, I always make it a point to ask God not to make me one of those people who grow old. Of course, chronologically the years can add on, but I shouldn’t show those tell-tale signs of ageing:
The old people smell, not knowing when I am drooling, when I start judging young people for their hairstyles or choice of music, or my lady for her dressing sense. I know so many guys who chase every mini skirt and then when they settle down with one, immediately ordain her to wear nothing that reveals more skin than a skin suit. That is the ultimate sign that age is taking its toll on us. I wish to never be that. I want to age like George Clooney, minus all the media attention.
But even while I am still youngish, I feel that it is within my rights to comment on the clothing that my partner buys, based purely on how easy it will be to iron. Yes, like every domesticated male of our species, I am in charge of ironing at home. Let me explain in detail. The space-time continuum is like a smooth fabric in three dimensions that stretches infinitely in every direction.
Now imagine a fourth dimension being introduced into this mix. It would completely warp the surface, not to mention the senses, as these three layers now wrap around a fourth one. Minkowski was wrong when he suggested that time is the fourth dimension. Time is not the fourth dimension, pleats are. That’s right. Pleats.
That little seemingly harmless fold of fabric that provides shape and fall to our garments is the bane of my pre-Saturday night out rituals. Why? Because, as (proudly) stated above, it is on my shoulders that the massive responsibility of ensuring that my partner and I look pristinely wrinkle-free rests. We cannot look like we crawled out of bed straight into dinner.
Pleats have a way of confusing the dimensions. They are the sole reason why we can use automatic washers and dryers and even vacuum cleaners but never irons. Because it would take a super computer to completely render an evening gown creaseless. In fact, not just the dresses that she buys but right down to the designers who fashion clothes out of plain fabric, it should ideally be whetted by us men before being released as their fall/winter collections: if it can’t be ironed on a simple 2X4 plank, it should not be allowed to exist.
That’s right: sartorial creativity should only be limited by its ability to be ironed smooth by a man of simple composition. Look at my suits, my shirts and socks, trousers and ties. Even my boxers can be ironed easily. Why, some of my jackets don’t even wrinkle that much no matter how long they stay in my suitcase. But a dress, oh one dainty little seat belt across and they seem to wrinkle permanently like an over-ripe prune.
So ladies, next time you go shopping allow your man the small veto right for dresses that need a lab-full of scientists to iron out. He promises to not object to how short it is provided it doesn’t fold around and into itself a million times. And some of you may think me whipped for taking up this topic so seriously but that is not so at all; for once, we both agree that I am indeed Ironman.
The writer is a lover of wine, song and everything fine
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