I’m not much of an ironer — everyone knows that. I firmly believe in fabric sheets, polyester, and when the wrinkles get tough, a quick Botox injection.

I blame my hatred of ironing on my youth. Back in my day, everything had to be pressed, including the underwear out of fear that we would have a car accident and that our tidy-whities would be discovered wrinkled.

God forbid.

Mother said I had a knack for ironing and therefore I was designated Head Ironer. She also said I had a knack for cleaning the windows and scrubbing the tubs. Boy, was I gullible.

I maintained my status as head ironer until the Easter morning of 1976, a day that shall forever be remembered as The Day Lori Burned a Big Iron Shaped Hole into the Spine of Dad’s New Easter Shirt.

I received a demotion that day. They all gathered around me, took my can of spray starch, looked at me in shame and then, to show they meant business, they took the ironing board out of my room. Although Mom contended that I was still the best shower cleaner this side of the Hilton, I never again got to iron the family apparel.

Some may think that it takes a lot of therapy to overcome such a tragedy, and most likely they are executives in stiff-collared shirts. But quite frankly, being forced out of the world of ironing was, for me, like getting an A on a history exam I never had to take.

From that day forward I felt liberated, happy, and free of pressed pleats and starched collars.

I met and married a man who not only tolerated unscrubbed tubs, but would never expect me to iron his dress socks for his business briefing on Monday morning, nor his shoe strings or a silk hankie to go with his three-piece suit.

And I befriended press-free women the world over — females who realize that there’s more to life than spray starch and freshly pressed pleats. In fact, we started a support group, organized committees, and rallied together enough women with a tolerance for a disheveled look to fill a second-hand clothing store.

Life went along just swimmingly. We were stepping light and moving easy in our wrinkle-free cotton blends.

Then suddenly, and out of the blue, I received a phone call from Laurel, a woman who claimed to be my chum. “You’ll NEVER guess what I just finished doing!” she exclaimed with great pride. “I actually used, not looked at, or found under my bed, but actually used an IRON!”

She was so proud of herself that she was ready to scream it from the laundry room, shout it from the rooftops and contact Joe Swift to come out and do a live sideline extravaganza.

Now, I’ve been proud of myself now and then. I’ve gone above and beyond, moved across the border and have been known to take risks up to and including parallel parking, but an iron? Come on. Why would she?

“Shut up!” I replied with disgust. “You did not use an iron!”

“I did,” she said without shame. “I used one. I, Laurel Alley, heated up and used an iron to do motherly tasks! I started with a Boy Scout shirt and a patch and things just went crazy from there.”

“Things went crazy all right,” I said as I scowled into the phone. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just took it out, plugged it in and lost all control. One minute I was looking at a patch that needed to be attached and the next thing I knew I was ironing shirts, skirts and stuff with buttons. I’m even starting to look at the bed sheets in a different way. It’s all so addicting.”

“Were there witnesses?” I inquired. “Could it be proven in a court of law? Is there any way you could wad up that shirt and pretend it didn’t happen? If your husband catches wind of this and tells other husbands, will they, in turn spread the word to other husbands who would eventually talk to my husband and tell him that you, Laurel Alley, used an iron? Why, the damages may be irreversible. It could only be a matter of time before my husband starts inspecting his shirts, looking through his dress pants and coming at me with a pile of clothing saying, ‘Laurel Alley irons. Why can’t you?’’’

I’m scratching Laurel off my list of chums and voting her out of the club for press-free women. You have to be careful with gals like Laurel. It could only be a matter of time before she lets the world know that she’s scrubbing the tubs.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.