I hate ironing. Despise it. It's a chore. Ironing is bad.
But, when traveling for work, after Lyfts and airplanes and shuttles and check-ins, ironing is a respite. It's a chance to pause and gather yourself and compose your thoughts and catch your breath.
And when you stop at the local liquor store—or "Hangover Hospital," as they apparently refer to them in Redlands, California—to pick up a quart of ice cold Victoria beforehand, flattening cloth with that red hot iron can be downright blissful.