My mother hated to dust worse than anything. (I can't help it; it's hereditary.) However, she was an ironing fool. She ironed everything. My dad was a bit of a dandy who liked a lot of starch in his shirts and always had a well-placed, points-up handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit, and he always wore a suit. Those weren't the only items Mother ironed. She ironed his boxer shorts, my bras (when that time came), and dish towels. She even had a mangle, a big console machine with heat and a padded roller, that was used for sheets, tablecloths, curtains; anything flat. Nothing escaped her. She was obsessive to the point that she ironed rags, fergawdssake! I swear that if she'd figured a way to iron it as she got older, she wouldn't have had a wrinkle in her face.
The ironing gene skipped a generation, for which I am so grateful. When the Kids were little and their dad was a rookie cop (police officer, that is), I took in washing and ironing from single guys on the force. The three-crease military press on uniform shirts was a stinker to perfect. What with his clothes, the Kids' clothes, my clothes, and the iron-for-hire clothes, I'll bet I set up the ironing board every day of the week. No one was happier than I when drip-dry, wash-and-wear material was invented. After that, about the only time the iron came out was when I was sewing; of course, I did a lot of sewing back in the day.
Deb, my daughter, got caught with a double whammy, poor girl. She not only hates to dust, but is compelled to iron everything. Whenever we'd shop for dresses or material, I'd be looking at labels for easy-care items and she'd inevitably pick out those which would require ironing. I'll bet she irons Craig's tee-shirts. She can't help it; blame it on my mother.
I have an iron and an ironing board. I remember where they are. I think the iron still works, but it's been so long. The thing is, if I had to iron something today, I'd have to dust the iron first and it's well known how I feel about that.