Steamed about wrinkles

I was certain that my daughter was the only person in the universe who actually enjoyed ironing until I mentioned this strange characteristic to my mom. "I've always liked to iron," she said. "It's soothing," she added, which is exactly how my daughter had described ironing. Is there some genetic component behind the enjoyment of ironing, and if so, why did it skip me? Surely I'm not the only one who considers ironing a preview of purgatory.

I remember as a child watching my mother's elaborate ironing procedure, which required starch, spray bottles, and the willingness to roll up damp dress shirts and stash them in the refrigerator. (Why? It's a mystery.) She took such great care with collars, cuffs, and sleeves that her white nursing uniforms and my father's dress shirts always looked worthy of hanging in the Ironing Hall of Fame.

Nothing I iron ever looks that good, despite the benefits of wrinkle-resistant fabrics and a high-tech iron, which is why I've always been happy to let my daughter do the ironing. Of course I pay her, but I have a feeling she'd iron for pleasure even if I weren't making it worth her while. As I look at the huge pile of wrinkled shirts and khaki pants begging for attention, I wonder whether there's a way to mail my ironing pile to my daughter and get it back looking pristine. It would give her pleasure to do my ironing--and she would certainly be the only student on campus getting her mom's laundry in the mail!