I thought my life would become less complicated as I aged. It’s not happening.
Personal relationships still confuse me. Close friends and relatives don’t think the same way I do. I can’t even finish writing a book I started two years ago.
Work is even more thorny. Why doesn’t everyone do as I ask? Most of my colleagues don’t even know what I’m talking about, and they respond accordingly.
That’s why I like to iron. It’s so simple. Give me a shirt, a blouse, wrinkled napkins – anything – and watch me make the magic. I can use steam. I can spray starch. I’m an expert. Even Sherry is in awe of my ironing talents.
As I grow older, I’d like to be capable of ironing out all the other wrinkles in my life.
But it’s not happening.