Ironing out The Wrinkles   I’m an iron, a cold, heavy wedge of metal and plastic, sitting at one end of your ironing board, waiting to be picked up and put to work. My job is to iron out the wrinkles from your clothes so that you may take on the day dressed in your confident best. I work only when I’m heated. When my cord is plugged in, the little light in me glows. You wait patiently until the light stops glowing. Then you know that I’m ready for work. I love being glided over fabric, smoothening one crease at a time, from collar to cuff. I know how important wearing well-pressed clothes is. Children also need to wear well-ironed school uniforms. You just can’t show up in the world in creased and crumpled attire. I hear you mutter in exasperation when a stubborn crease refuses to give in or when you’re running late. I’ve seen you tackle school uniforms and hurriedly run me over clothes that don’t even need ironing, either. Am I dangerous? Yes, if you’re ca...