The only time I ever enjoyed ironing was the day I accidentally

The jest of Phyllis Diller, “The only time I ever enjoyed ironing was the day I accidentally got gin in the steam iron,” may sound like a spark of comedy tossed into the air — light, fleeting, mischievous. Yet beneath its laughter lies a gleam of ancient wisdom, the eternal truth that joy can be found in the unexpected, that even the burdens of daily life may shimmer if touched by the spirit of play. Diller, a queen of laughter in an age that often demanded solemnity from women, turned drudgery into delight — not by escaping it, but by transforming it. Her humor was her rebellion, her way of saying that life’s monotony need not enslave the soul.

In the world of the ancients, philosophers spoke of the art of turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. The Stoics, those calm masters of endurance, taught that one cannot always choose one’s labors, but one may always choose one’s spirit. The task before you — be it ironing, farming, or facing hardship — is less important than the heart with which you approach it. Phyllis Diller’s gin in the steam iron becomes, then, a symbol: the sudden accident that turns weariness into wonder, duty into laughter, the mundane into the miraculous. It is the reminder that even in the smallest of errors, the gods may hide a smile.

Consider, for a moment, the life of Diogenes, the philosopher who lived in a barrel. To the citizens of Athens, his life seemed absurd — his ways unbecoming of a scholar. Yet he found joy in simplicity and humor in poverty. When Alexander the Great offered him anything he desired, Diogenes merely said, “Stand out of my sunlight.” In that single moment of wit, he revealed a truth as radiant as Diller’s: that freedom of spirit matters more than the weight of circumstance. Both Diogenes and Diller wielded laughter as a sword — cutting through the vanity of toil and the tyranny of expectation.

So too, Diller’s words speak to the invisible chains of the domestic world. In her time, the act of ironing symbolized the endless repetition of labor — tasks unseen, unpraised, yet unrelenting. To “get gin in the steam iron” was, perhaps by accident, to inject levity into the suffocating seriousness of duty. The hiss of vapor mixed with the scent of rebellion — a quiet victory of humor over heaviness. Her laughter was not mockery, but alchemy — the transmutation of frustration into freedom, of duty into delight.

And this, beloved reader, is the secret the wise have always known: that joy is not given, but made. The enlightened do not wait for ease; they create it. The poet finds beauty in sorrow, the sage finds wisdom in failure, and the comedian finds laughter in the mundane. Diller’s gin-soaked iron is a reminder that one may stumble into happiness not through great deeds, but through playfulness of heart — through the willingness to see absurdity where others see burden.

There is a tale from the East of a monk who, after years of meditation, found enlightenment not in stillness, but in laughter. As he swept the temple floor, a breeze blew dust into his face. Instead of cursing, he laughed — for he realized that even dust has its dance. That moment of laughter was his awakening. Likewise, Diller teaches us that enlightenment need not wear robes or sit in silence. It may wear an apron, hold a steam iron, and burst into laughter when the unexpected arrives.

Thus, the lesson to pass down is this: Let humor be your rebellion against despair. When your days feel heavy with routine, pour a little gin — not into your iron, perhaps, but into your spirit. See the absurdity of life and smile at it, for laughter is the breath of freedom. Find delight in the unplanned, grace in the mistake, and wisdom in the ridiculous.

For those who can laugh at their burdens, even the iron sings.