I washed a new load of ten tote bags this weekend to get them ready for painting. They come out of the dryer a big wrinkly jumble, so they all must be ironed with high heat and steam. THE WORST.  

I may possess two blouses total that require ironing, and which I, therefor, never wear. But I found myself happily ironing away, for upwards of FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, with no inner griping. What is this new sensation? Contentment at work? Avocation turning to vocation? PASSION that involves ironing?

I don't know. Sounds like bullshit. But new bags are coming soon.