Today I go to my eldest client’s house. Well, it’s not a house. She lives in an independent living community. It’s really just a big hotel-looking building with little apartments in it and a rec room for bingo.
It’s a very nice place but I always feel like I’m walking back in time when I go there. Ornate furniture lines the lobby with grandfather clocks and high chandeliers. The round tables in the dining room are covered in white tableclothes and adorned with flower centerpieces in crystal vases. It’s almost a bit Titanic-ish. And they’re always playing oldies songs throughout the halls. Frank Sinatra and Perry Como belt out the soundtracks of a simpler, happier time. A time of sock hops and apple pie. I always wonder what they will play in the halls when Gen Xers like me get old. Will they pump out Cyndi Lauper and Boy George through the speakers? Will we still be fighting for our right to party?
I’ll probably be ironing today, as every time I go there I iron. I don’t know what it is with the older generation and ironing. I think I might have one shirt that needs ironing and I rarely wear it because of that reason. When I go there I feel like the 50s housewife surrounded by piles of clothes to iron, slaving away in billows of hot steam for the sake of a pressed shirt. It’s like someone back then declared a war on wrinkles. A wrinkled shirt is a Commie shirt! Do your part, iron them out!
The first time she asked me to use starch I had to read the directions because I realized I had no idea what to do with it.
Funny thing is, I even have to iron her sheets and pillow cases too. Of course I see absolutely no reason for this, but I oblige cheerfully. I figure if the rest of her wardrobe is stiff as a board, why not the linens too. Wrinkled sheets sink ships after all.
So today I’ll probably be ironing again. But I have gotten pretty good at it. Maybe I could open up my own business. Oh, wait, they already have those. They’re called dry cleaners.