Mont Blanc pens & professionally laundered shirts

There have been a few times in my life when I've stumbled upon something I've really come to love.  Something that makes me feel good, consistently time after time.  One of those things is a Mont Blanc rollerball pen.

There is something really cool about a Mont Blanc pen that is interesting to describe.  Part of it is the weighty feel of the pen in your hand.  Another is the consistently smooth twist function of the shaft of the instrument that exposes or conceals the writing tip.  Another is the boldness of the marks that come from the medium point rollerball.  I love this pen.  I carry it with me everyday to work and carefully stow it on my nightstand when it's time to relax.  Perhaps it's knowing the cost of the pen that adds to it's attractiveness, I don't know.  But what I do know is when I am writing with my Mont Blanc, I feel good.  I feel substantial.  I feel authoritative.

Similarly, there is something really appealing about newly laundered shirts, fresh out of the cellophane plastic covers.  With just enough starch to make the shirt look crisp, but not so much that the fabric is scratchy, putting on a professionally cleaned shirt made mostly out of cotton is a daily ritual that prepares me to take on the day, no matter what challenges await.

I remember the first time I felt justified in sending my shirts out to the cleaners.  It was in 1990 after I landed my first job in hospital administration as an Administrative Resident with Mercy San Juan Hospital in Carmichael, California, an unincorporated neighborhood in Sacramento County.  We had just finished grad school in Arizona and found what would become our first home in an older sub-division affectionately called the "Duck Pond".  Most of the streets in the neighborhood carried the names of different species of ducks.  Ours was "Speckle Way", and we were very excited to finally be homeowners.

I purchased a couple of suits for the job.  One was from Dillards, a Macy's-look alike department store in Arizona; the other was from my previous employer, J. C. Penney.  Together with a few Stafford shirts (Penney's store brand) I was ready to take on the world.  And then, I decided to splurge and have the shirts laundered for $1.50 each.

The professional laundry we chose was in a little strip mall a 5 minute drive from our house.  The shop would close at 7:00 pm and I remember the first symptoms of my addictive workaholism surfacing as I found myself programming their phone number into my cellular phone so I could call the owner and ask him to wait a few minutes while I raced to his shop after work.  For some reason, getting there before 7:00 was often a challenge.  Little did I know that getting home at a decent hour would become a lifelong struggle.

But, back to the shirts.  The look and feel of the freshly pressed shirt was something that spoke "important".  I liked the crispness of how it looked and how the starched collar always looked sharp without any wrinkles.  In fact, I remember a time later in life when we were experiencing some hard times and needed to trim back our budget.  The question of going back to washing and ironing my shirts at home came up, but was quickly dismissed.  I would never go back to that willingly again.  It was a symbol of having garnered some ritualistic achievement I didn't ever want to let go of.

No doubt there are a few other things in life that are of similar importance, or rather that have a similar effect in making me feel good about myself and life, but it's funny I can't think of any at the moment.  And with that, I will offer a request for those who'll be making decisions once I'm dead and gone...

Bury me in a white medium starched cotton shirt.  An oxford button-down from Norstrom would be nice.  Then pass one of my Mont Blanc pens down to each of my sons.  While it will probably be unperceived by the onlookers, you can rest assured as I lie there motionless, that I will be feeling like I've accomplished something.