We Can Do Better Than That

What a crisply ironed shirt reminded me about care

I love a crisply ironed shirt. It doesn’t have to be a “special-occasion” shirt, or something new. I just love a simple cotton shirt, pressed smooth, collar sitting just right, sleeves with a faint line where the iron last passed through. When I wear one, or when my husband wears one, I feel like we stand a little taller, our posture a little straighter. It feels like we made an effort.

It’s funny how far these shirts have drifted from everyday life for most of us. Somewhere between staying home during COVID and moving to a more relaxed, coastal rhythm, we got used to soft things. Easy things. Clothes that don’t wrinkle, don’t require effort, don’t ask anything of us beyond being comfortable.

And honestly, it makes sense. Who wants to spend time ironing? Who wants to pay to have it done? I have a physical aversion to paying for someone to simply iron a shirt. So the shirts that did require a little care quietly moved to the back of the closet…like good china. Saved for the “right” occasion, just waiting for someone to pull them out and remember how special – how elevated – they can be.

That is most definitely not how I grew up. My mom ironed everything. Not just the obvious things – shirts, blouses, dresses – but bedsheets, tablecloths, even my dad’s and brother’s t-shirts. Not just their undershirts. I am talking about their t-shirts. All of them! The ones they wore to do yard work or play basketball in. All of them. Everything was folded or hung just so. Crisp. Intentional. Finished. The smell of freshly pressed cotton and the sound of the steam coming out of a hot iron are core memories for me.

There was a quiet standard in it. Not flashy, not fussy. Just – care. Even now, when I pull out a tablecloth that’s a little wrinkled and decide it’s fine, I can almost hear her. She wouldn’t say much. Just a look, maybe a small shake of the head.

We can do better than that. And, if she’s visiting, she’ll say “get the ironing board and let me take care of that.”

For a long time, I would do just that. I would save what needed to be ironed in a separate stack for her visits, and she would happily take a look and say “I’ll take care of that.” On the rare occasion when Dave or I needed to have a shirt pressed in her absence, I’d do it. She taught me well. “I know how to iron a shirt. I just choose not to,” I told myself.

Until last weekend, that is. On a rainy afternoon, I pulled all my cotton shirts out – the ones I’d been passing over, the ones I’d been “saving” – and I ironed them. One by one. An entire can of starch, gone by the end of it. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t necessary. But there was something about the rhythm of it – the repetition, the small transformation of each shirt from rumpled to smooth – that felt grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.

When I was done, looking at them hanging there – crisp, ready, waiting – I felt it a kind of pride, a small but unmistakable sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t because anyone else would notice, but because I did. I chose to do that over a million other things I could have done.

I have been thinking about that sense of accomplishment ever since. It’s not about doing things the way they were always done, or holding myself to someone else’s standard without question. But every now and then, I hear her.

We can do better than that.

And instead of feeling embarrassed…I find myself smiling, reaching for the iron, and deciding “she’s right.”

It’s not about doing everything perfectly. But maybe it is worth asking, every now and then, “What else have we quietly lowered the bar on?” And…would we maybe feel just a little better if we raised it back up?