O sweet mother of custard, this ironing stuff reminds me of my paternal grandmother——my cousin dubbed her Sergeant Grammy. She was a terror.
And she. ironed. everything. Yes, sheets. Also underwear, socks——I fear for our fates if we'd've held still and in reach while she was ironing.
What I loved (in a truly perverse way) was that she would iron the kids'* T-shirts, yeah, OK, but then she'd fold them in sixths, the way you find them on the store shelves, and press ther iron over them AGAIN, so the boxy creases stayed there. Because, I guess, that would leave no doubt these T-shirts had been ironed. And they'd b'gum stay that way at least till the end of the day they were worn.
I sent 16 years in Catholic schools and about a decade as a hospital nurse, but Sgt. Grammy gave me the most strenuous workouts in keeping a straight face I ever got.
*She lived with my cousins and their parents.