Apparently, there’s a right way to live.
And it starts with ironing your towels.
Yes – towels. Because, as my mother would say, “It’s what decent people do.”
Meanwhile, I’m over here choosing indecency – the wild, reckless kind that involves not burning an hour of my life pressing fabric that exists to get wrinkled again.
I can already hear her voice: “You don’t iron? Oh, Erika…”
No, Mom. I don’t iron. I don’t steam. I barely fold.
Because somewhere between working mornings, family lunches, and raising a small human into something kind and curious, I ran out of time to make my sheets look like they just graduated from military school.
And honestly, I’m fine with that.
But try explaining that to someone who believes the apocalypse begins with a creased pillowcase.
The Gospel According to the Iron
The generational guilt is real.
Every time my mother mentions her ironing board, I feel like she’s ironing my conscience – pressing out the wrinkles of my rebellion.
“Back in my day…” she begins, like a prophet of domestic order.
I know what’s coming. The sermon. The commandments. The gospel according to the Iron.
- Thou shalt wash the potatoes before peeling.
- Thou shalt slice the carrots before cooking.
- Thou shalt not rest until every towel is crisp and every conscience is tidy.
And I, the heretic, stand there (unwashed potatoes in hand) wondering if this is how witches felt in the 1600s.
Selective Devotion
Here’s the thing: I’m not lazy.
I’m just selectively devoted.
I will gladly spend an hour reading to my daughter, but not one minute ironing napkins no one looks at.
I’ll wash the floor when it’s dirty – not on schedule, not “because it’s Thursday.”
I’ve learned that peace comes from choosing what actually matters, not from performing cleanliness like it’s a moral virtue.
Because for some people, “doing things properly” is just another way to stay too busy to be present.
You can’t sit in silence if you’re always polishing something.
The Church of Crisp Linens
Domestic perfection is the new religion – and I’ve gone rogue.
I no longer believe that devotion is measured in how many times I wash a potato.
I don’t need validation from the Church of Crisp Linens.
I’ve stopped praying to the god of “the right way.”
Because here’s a radical thought: maybe there isn’t one.
Maybe you can peel first, wash later.
Maybe you can cook first, slice after.
Maybe you can let your towels live free – wrinkled, but deeply at peace.
Maybe peace doesn’t come from the perfect home, but from the imperfect one where you actually live.
Thank You, But No
Every generation thinks they’ve mastered life’s logistics.
My parents’ generation had rules for everything – laundry, food, neighbours, feelings.
Structure was survival. Perfection was pride.
And I get it. They built their lives from scarcity.
Ironing wasn’t about vanity; it was about dignity.
A clean home said – we made it.
And that deserves respect.
I’m thankful for it – for the discipline, the order, the structure that carried me here.
But I’m also thankful that I get to choose differently.
Because where they sought control, I seek calm.
Where they found worth in spotless counters, I find it in unhurried mornings and a daughter who knows that love isn’t measured in folded towels.
Freedom, Served Wrinkled
So no, I won’t wash my potatoes before peeling them.
Not because I’m defiant, but because I’m free.
Freedom, for me, looks like a kitchen that smells of carrots cooked “the wrong way” and laughter louder than judgment. It looks like gratitude without guilt.
It looks like a mother who thanks the generation before her for everything – except their anxiety.
But here’s what breaks me open:
Sometimes, when I watch my daughter play, I see my mother’s hands in mine. The same curve of the fingers, the same instinct to tidy, to fix, to make things “just right.”
And I realise – she wasn’t wrong.
She was trying to protect me the only way she knew how: by teaching me control in a world that didn’t offer women much else.
So when I put down the iron, I’m not rejecting her. I’m rewriting the story she started – one where a woman’s worth isn’t measured by the smoothness of her linens, but by the softness of her presence.
And that, somehow, feels like love evolving.
The Right Way for Me
My mother still sighs when she sees my “system.”
“You’re supposed to do it this way,” she says.
And I smile – not to agree, but to protect her peace.
Because what she doesn’t know is that I already am doing it the right way.
The right way for me. The one that leaves room for joy, not resentment.
And honestly, if the price of a wrinkle-free towel is my sanity, I’ll take the wrinkles.
Gratitude, Not Perfection
So iron your towels if it makes you happy. But don’t expect me to join your crusade. I’ve already found my religion.
It’s called gratitude – and it doesn’t require an ironing board. It only asks that I stay thankful.
Thankful for the hands that ironed before me,
for the lessons they pressed into cloth and memory,
and for the chance to finally unfold it all,
gently, lovingly,
and live my own version of tidy –
creasing only where life has been kind enough to touch it.
So I don’t iron anymore, Mom. Not because I’m lazy, or rebellious, or have finally given up on adulthood, but because I’ve learned that peace doesn’t come from pressed fabric.
It comes from mornings that start with laughter instead of laundry. From hands that hold, not fold.
From choosing time with my daughter over time spent smoothing the creases of things no one remembers.
Erika Matic writes about transformation, resistance, and the quiet rebellion of choosing peace over perfection. She peels her potatoes the “wrong” way and loves her life the right way – creases, chaos, and all.
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