Explaining ironing to the dog.

I was ironing a shirt the other day when junior varsity dog Nipper wandered in and gave me that dog look that says, "Huh?"

Most of the time he sees me doing something he's used to seeing me do -- looking at machines, annoying senior varsity dog Tralfaz, blabbing with Mrs. K, cooking FOOD, eating FOOD -- but this was something he couldn't grasp. Taking a hot thing and smooshing a fabric with it because... huh?

You couldn't explain it to him in a million years. He doesn't even know what's up with clothes. Fabrics are just something fun to rip up; he doesn't know why we use them. He does know that when it's cold and I'm putting extras on, he might be going outdoors. But it's not like he slips into a suit and tie to go there.

Ironing is a little weird anyway, I guess. After Nipper gave up on me I thought about it. I used to iron a lot more when I had to dress for the office, particularly twenty years ago, when people didn't go to work wearing the same thing they wore to bed. But here I was, pressing some summertime shirts. Why? I work from home. Whom am I trying to impress? Clearly not the dogs.

Iron Chef! Ha ha ha never mind

By this point in my ironing I was wondering why I was doing it at all. Seriously, what was the point? People should be glad I'm wearing anything. It's hot out there. Maybe just a big hat to protect my scalp. Otherwise, nekkid editor comin' through!

But I have to admit I like the look of a nice, crisp shirt, on me, or on someone else. Unless that's my shirt on someone else. Hey! Gimme back my shirt!

The question is, why do we like the look of ironed clothes? Dirty clothes are repellent because they might indicate disease or stink or vermin, but my shirts were perfectly clean, and looked it. Just wrinkled. Why iron?

Here's where your evolutionary psychologist takes over and proves that an ironed shirt acts on us the way a simple landscape would on our ancestors, who would be able to perceive threats that would be hidden in a more... wrinkled landscape. Or something. Maybe the ironed shirt acted like smooth skin, indicating someone more appropriate for mating with than someone with wrinkled skin. Sounds like nonsense to me, but if we can spread the idea around, maybe all the guys won't keep coming to work in what they woke up in.

I think we do have a natural preference for order over chaos, except when we are teenagers. It's why we have so many pieces of furniture devoted to having a place to put things, so many closets in our homes. It's why even if you like messy art, like Jackson Pollock or one of the other drips, you don't chuck it in a room with a bunch of other crap; you hang it on the wall where it is lighted properly and away from other objects. An ironed shirt shows a person who is willing to do a dumb job like ironing, or paying someone to do it, because he prefers order to disorder. Or something like that.

One thing I do not do and never have is iron jeans. That was not unusual in the pre-grunge days -- the eighties liked things slick and shiny -- but I find it as pointless as ironing sweatpants. No, I draw the line at jeans.

The dog still doesn't get it. He ate a recipe for pasta salad yesterday. Not the pasta salad, I mean he chewed up the paper it was written on. Ironing will have to be one of those weird people things he doesn't understand. And I'll never understand those weird dog things.