Let me be perfectly clear: I love ironing.
It's therapeutic, like entering another world. The heat relaxes both your muscles and your mind. The soothing scent of spray starch fills the air. Life's worries travel down your arm, into the iron, and dissipate with a gentle hiss and a puff of steam. Your mind becomes clear. Troubles are smoothed out, like the wrinkles in a white, French-cuffed shirt. Ironing becomes a chance to think about your life, your problems, your world. Cognitive stars align as you crease a pair of pants; connections are made as as collars are pressed. The universe unfolds itself before you, on the warm ironing board. The fact that you get a crisp, wrinkle-free garment afterward is but an added bonus.
Just don't touch the bottom of the iron. It hurts like you wouldn't believe. Also, it'll give you a huge blister. Gross.