"What can I help you with?" He calls out from the torturous depths of his recliner in the den as I smother under my load of
terry cloth. While I appreciate his thoughtfulness, it's a very healthy thing for our marriage that he can't hear me. I grew up on Navy Bases. I know some pretty good words.Lately, however, my prince has
been much more considerate. No longer does he wait until the chores are done to ask if I need help. And – even more bizarre – on some days he actually wades into the household tasks without me whining about
how much I have to do. Imagine my surprise the other day when I emerged from scrubbing a bathroom that looked like the birthplace of an army of aliens to find him slaving over a hot ironing board.
"Whoa!"
I said as I came to a sudden halt. Was it possible he was ironing or had I slipped into some kind of parallel universe? My eyes beheld my spouse – or a reasonable facsimile thereof – carefully pressing his
dress shirt, spritzing it with spray starch, the children's things already neatly draped on nearby hangers. I wondered if I went around the corner into the den, would I run into a parallel me, kicked back in
his recliner, punishing a remote control, with an open bag of Oreos secreted in my armpit? I peeked. Nope. I might have slipped into the Twilight Zone, but it appears I'm a coolie there, too. I continued to
stare as my spouse finished the ironing.
"What's the matter?" He asked as I remained motionless, transfixed by the sight. "I've ironed before!"
"Well, yeah," I said. "There was that time back in '91. But
that made sense. I mean, I was in the hospital giving birth. And the nursing supervisor wouldn't let you bring an ironing board up to my room."
Hell froze over all last week. Every night I would hear the
creak of the ironing board, then he'd stand in the kitchen, ironing like Hazel on speed. I began to wonder.
Could it be that he was having an affair and the guilt was driving him to iron as a penance? Or
maybe he's hosting multiple personalities: One a messy, Oscar Madison-type who leaves a trail of Bugle crumbs and the other, a Felix Unger-type who walks behind himself cleaning up? Could he have sniffed too
much gasoline when he was filling up the lawn mower? Perhaps he'd fallen and his brain didn't get up.
Yes, I wondered what had happened to transform my White Knight into Mr. Clean. Until Saturday, that is.
On Saturday it all became quite clear. That's the day he jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn and ran around the yard like a madman, mowing, pruning and raking at the speed of sound. I carried a drink to
him and urged him to be careful.
"Don't worry. I'm fine. I have to be finished by noon," he said.
"What happens at noon?" I asked.
I should have known the answer. I should have seen it coming. And
you'd think after all the years we've been married, I'd finally realize that whenever my spouse gets fired up to help around the house, he's merely laying the groundwork for the season. A season when he
wants to be left alone, wrapped around a remote control, eyes fixed to the TV, pillaging a bag of chocolate chip cookies. The season to beat all seasons: Football season.
We will, we will iron you.
