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In the days before my business trip, my to-do-before-I-leave list grew like that plate of endless spaghetti that seems to grow with every bite. At least you can wrap up the leftover spaghetti and eat it for lunch the next day, or, better yet, use it to make a delicious plate of gooey, cheesy baked spaghetti.

Unfortunately, there is no plastic wrap for a list of tasks, and paperwork can't be repackaged into something better like a saucy, romantic novel. There was nothing to do but plug away until it was all finished.

Three hours after the time I planned to leave for Atlanta, I finally sent my last e-mail. I still had not packed, and Hubby was getting anxious about me being on the road into the night. To save time, he started pulling out business suits and, bless his heart, counting out pantyhose.

As soon as I could, I jumped in and assisted with the packing. With nearly a week's worth of clothing scattered across our bed, Hubby noticed that a couple of items needed to be pressed. I said, "No problem. I checked the hotel amenities list online, and each room has an iron and ironing board."

Hubby's face contorted with concern. He then commented, "Yes, but I won't be there to iron it. You'll have to do it."

"Yes, I know. Just throw them in the suitcase. I'll take care of it."

Hubby shrugged his shoulders and placed the semi-wrinkled items in the suitcase.

To explain the odd reaction, you must understand that while it has been pointed out in the past that Hubby has had trouble with things like changing the oil on his foreign-made vehicle, ultimately causing more $200 in damage, there are a few things he can do -- things that simply allude me.

Ironing is one of them. I never particularly liked ironing. I always thought my dislike for the chore evolved from my general dislike for tedious tasks. This gave me the false security of thinking that if push came to shove, and I actually had to iron, I could.

But Hubby doesn't mind ironing and seems to do a bang-up job. That's why it's been years, maybe even decades, since I've picked up an iron except to take it out and hand it to Hubby or put it away after it cooled on the kitchen counter.

When I finally arrived in Atlanta, I headed straight for bed. I would have plenty of time to iron in the morning, since I wouldn't be making breakfast, packing lunch and looking for matching socks and missing homework.

Bright and early, refreshed and ready to start the day, I grabbed my wrinkled blouse, skirt and jacket, and then set up the ironing board. I plugged in the iron and then put on my makeup while it heated.

Confident that the iron was ready, I began working on my skirt. After a few passes, the stubborn wrinkles were still there. I turned the knob to increase the heat. A few strokes later, the wrinkles remained, only now they were wet because the water was leaking.

Grabbing a clean washcloth from the bathroom, I sopped up the pools of water between the wrinkles of my skirt. Then I picked off the lint the washcloth left behind. Accidentally touching the iron, I did not profusely burn the living daylights out of my hand. That's when I realized that the little red light wasn't illuminated. The iron was off.

I pushed the button and turned on the iron. It heated -- for real this time -- while I dried my hair. With a much warmer iron, I attempted to defeat the wrinkles. The iron didn't glide easily and was once again leaking. As I adjusted the settings, a burst of hot steam erupted. When the air cleared, I tried again. Magically, some of the wrinkles began to vanish.

Finishing the skirt, I began working on my jacket. Unbeknownst to me, the iron's auto-shut-off mechanism was triggered. There was more water leakage. The wrinkles laughed at me. I think I actually added more wrinkles.

I fought back and forth with the iron, finally eliminating enough wrinkles to make it look like I just pulled the outfit out of my suitcase. It was only a little damp in places, which made it a little chilly sitting in air-conditioned meeting rooms all day, but I managed.

Delusions of my dislike of ironing are now shattered. I am woman enough to admit that I don't iron simply because I lack the ability. I'm happy to change the oil in the car and can confidently assure you that I will not drain the transmission fluid in the process. But as for ironing, I'll leave that job to Hubby.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.