I have been reacquainting myself with items in my closet that I haven’t worn in years, and now I know why. It wasn’t just because they didn’t fit me back then – it’s because I’d need an advanced degree in laundering in order to keep them clean.
Jeans and T-shirts may not be the most elegant of outfits, but you can chuck them into the washer together, use bog-standard detergent, set the dryer to volcano-hot and when they’re finished, just bunch them up in a drawer. So long as you avoid touching the metal button on the jeans when they’re fresh out of the dryer, you’re golden.
Now, I’m wearing clothes that need to be coddled and cajoled through the cleaning process. For example, I’m finally able to slip into an elegant black top I’ve owned for ages. When I wore it for the first time, I was thrilled with how it looked. I twisted and twirled in front of the mirror.
At the end of the night, I removed it (imagine the glorious sight) and ‘twas then that mine eyes scanned its care label.
I’m paraphrasing, but apparently it had to be soaked in a mixture of 50% distilled water/50% angels’ tears at exactly 30 degrees F for 20 minutes before it was to be lovingly conveyed to any kind of machinery, which could only be employed if it offered the perfect combination of obscure functions. I don’t know what the symbol for ‘It would be lunacy to use the dryer’ is, but it was definitely on the label somewhere.
Y’see, it’s a black top with white piping around the seams. I figured the instructions were as fussy as a purebred Pekingese because if someone didn’t follow them to the letter, the piping wouldn’t retain its brilliance.
Well, clearly I used the wrong ratio of water, or it was 35 degrees when it soaked, or I simply didn’t know how to use our washing machine (most likely scenario), as after half-a-day spent cleaning that one item of clothing, I still ended up with grey piping. Since then, I’ve just thrown it in with the rest of the laundry.
I have similarly strong feelings about ironing. For those of you who can feel, “Yeah, and it shows,” rising up in your throats, just know that I’m living my best life, spending every possible moment laughing and socialising with friends and family, rather than being tied to a cross-framed board.
The last time I ironed anything was when I was in the UK with my parents in 2018.
I needed to wash some shirts, but had limited means of doing so. I couldn’t be bothered to go to the local laundromat, so I turned to what was easily at hand. Like so many other British kitchens, the one in the house where we were staying possessed an under-the-counter washing machine, which also doubled as a dryer.
My mother had a painful history with this type of all-in-one appliance. Similar models had ruined several of her dresses in the past, no matter what settings she chose; she therefore advised against my plan.
Of course, I would not be swayed. I had to Google the instruction manual, and work out what the hanger symbol meant, but then I was ready to do battle.
In went the shirts, and with supreme confidence, I set the dials and let her fly.
The first hint that this wasn’t going to go well should have been the time it was all taking.
There were lots of false alarms, when I’d hear a click, a beep, and the lights would go out; but then it would spring to life again, just as I approached it and tried to open the door.
This was no ordinary appliance. This was HAL from ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’.
“Just what do you think you are doing, Vicki?”
“Open the door, HAL.”
I had chosen the coolest setting possible for drying… or so I thought. An unbelievable three hours later, the thing finally ground to a halt.
As I unlatched the porthole, a wave of steam billowed out and enveloped my face, opening every pore and rendering my spectacles useless.
I blindly reached for the contents within, and immediately retracted my hand, howling as I went. The shirts had been reduced to tightly crumpled balls of fire, unrecognisable and possibly very ruined. I managed to extricate one, but swiftly released it to the floor before I ended my potential career as a concert pianist. How did cotton even get to this temperature without spontaneously combusting?
Mum was pretty swift with the “I-told-you-so”s, which I thoroughly deserved, but now I had the job of trying to restore these steaming lumps to their former glory.
The first step was to hang them all in the shower with the handle cranked to the furthest reaches of ‘Hot’. As the bathroom fixtures disappeared into the kind of fog that dominated Stevie Nicks’ music videos in the ‘80s, I watched and waited, hoping the moist heat would do its work.
About 15 minutes into the process, it seemed to be doing some good. I won’t go into the details of how it subsequently dawned on me that in order to switch the water off, I would have to somehow reach the handle again, which now presided over a vast shower floor flooded with boiling liquid.
We’ll just skip that part and assume I made it through alive.
By this time, it was 11pm. I was tired and my burnt hands were sore, but I didn’t dare leave the job unfinished. Back home, with my own familiar appliances, I could have washed and dried everything, and just used a handheld steamer to get the rest of the wrinkles out. This was a different story.
Out came the ironing board and iron, and once the latter was ready to go, I started ironing.
If you haven’t done shirts in a while, it’s a nightmare. I was actually adding creases to the material, narrowing sleeves as I worked.
Midnight, 1am… they came and went.
Eventually, at 1:30am, the last shirt was done. I hung it up, collapsed the ironing board (pinching my finger in the process), and put everything away, crawling into bed soon after.
What did I learn from this experience? Natural fibres will put you in an early grave; and laundry appliances should be like shampoo and conditioner – never buy the all-in-ones.
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