I ironed eight elegant men's shirts

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I ironed eight elegant men's shirts.

The first one was white and terribly wrinkled. I set the iron to the right temperature, filled it with water, and began ironing with gentle but determined movements. Pressing the spray button occasionally and spraying a little Klaro starch to make ironing easier, I moved the iron along the sleeve, up and down the back, and paused briefly on the unruly cuffs. Then, playing a game I call a slalom between the buttons—which is not a slalom at all—I smoothed out the shirttails and ran them over the previously generously beaded collar a few times, finally critically assessing the smoothness before hanging the ironed shirt on a hanger.

The second one was white and terribly wrinkled. I set the iron to the right temperature, filled it with water, and began ironing with gentle but determined movements. Pressing the spray button occasionally and spraying with "Klaro" ironing starch, I moved the iron along the sleeve, up and down the back, pausing at the unruly cuffs. Then, playing a game I call "slalom" between the buttons—which is not really a slalom—I evened out the shirttails and ran them over the previously generously beaded collar several times, finally critically assessing the smoothness by hanging the ironed item on a hanger.

The third item was white and very wrinkled. I set the iron to the same temperature, filled it with water, and began ironing with full determination. Pressing the spray button and spraying with "Klaro" ironing starch, I moved the iron along the sleeve, up and down the back, pausing briefly at the cuffs. Then, playing what I call a frantic slalom between the buttons—which is not really a slalom at all—I evened out the lapels and ran a few times over the beaded collar, finally assessing the smoothness by hanging the ironed garment on a hanger.

The fourth garment was white and creased. I set the iron and began ironing with calm, decisive movements. Pressing the spray button and spraying starch, I moved the iron along the sleeve, back, and cuffs. Then, ironing between the buttons, evened out the lapels and collar. Finally, I hung the smooth garment on a hanger.

The fifth one was white and terribly wrinkled. I set the iron to the right temperature, poured in enough water, and began ironing with incredibly slow, murderous movements. Pressing the spray button constantly and spraying almost continuously with a starch solution from the excellent brand "Klaro," which makes ironing much easier, I moved the iron along the entire sleeve, up and down, left and right of the back, and paused for long moments on the wonderfully unruly cuffs. Then, playing a game I poetically and airily call a button slalom, which is by no means a slalom, I smoothed out the shirttails and ran a few times over the previously very generously beaded collar, finally assessing the smoothness uncritically, hanging the perfectly ironed shirt on a hanger.

The sixth one was the same. I set that damn iron to a blazing hot temperature, and after the water spilled onto the floor, I ignored the further pouring and began ironing with my hands, but with full facial expression. Gritting my teeth occasionally and bursting with the "Homemade Chicken" ironing-friendly humor, I moved the iron up and down, pausing for moments of respite at the damn banquettes. Then, playing a game I call "galloping between lids," which is completely impossible to encompass with galloping, I straightened the shirttails haphazardly and cursed a few times over the heavily beaded collar, before critically assessing the smoothness by hanging the ironed white damn shirt on a hanger.

The seventh one was white and terribly wrinkled. So I threw it out the window.

The eighth one was white and terribly wrinkled. I opened the window wide enough, swung it gracefully, and began to watch the shirt as it blew in the wind with calm, yet determined movements. Occasionally cursing and bursting with the bubbly humor of "You'll Get It All Out, Clara," I threw away the iron, the basket (I groaned), which was so beautifully flying up and down, and paused at the monstrous cuffs… Then, my face flushed, but playing a game I call a button slalom, which couldn't be called a slalom at all, I tore off the shirttails, snipped several times along the previously generously shortened collar, and finally, critically assessed the smoothness of the shirt, hanging the perfectly ironed shirt on a hanger