Last week my son joined the Facebook group, Extreme Ironing. According to the official website, extreme ironing is “the latest danger sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt.”

It briefly crossed my mind that perhaps as part of my Ten Year Self Improvement Challenge, I should participate in something a bit crazy and out of my comfort zone to see if it would build my confidence, but that thought quickly disappeared. Surely you’d have to have some kind of insanity in your character to do something like ironing while abseiling?

Personally I think that normal ironing is dangerous enough; firstly there is the extremely hot iron and all that scalding steam, then there’s the easy-to-trip-over electric cord, and lastly there is the finger-trapping ironing board. But does that stop me ironing? No, I iron all the time. Well, that’s not strictly true; if an item has been in the dryer and looks good enough I will just fold it and put it away. However, the reason for that would be less about my safety, and more about my laziness.

Generally I do tend to avoid scary things. I would not dream of  jumping out of a perfectly good plane, and casually iron my undies while trying to remember which cord I need to pull for the parachute to open. Well, I don’t iron undies anyway, let alone while plummeting to the earth at a gazillion miles per hour. I should be seeing my life flash before my eyes, not my knickers. But some insanely confident and strange people do these  thrill-seeking things, just not people like me.

Actually, now I come to think of it, even normal sport is not my thing. The closest I ever got to sport was watching snooker on the TV in the 80s. I didn’t enjoy it much, I only watched it because my husband liked it. An extreme version of snooker might be fun to watch; this Jackie Chan fight scene springs to mind.

So, it didn’t take long to decide that I won’t be doing anything extreme, anytime soon. I’ll continue to get my rush of adrenaline while merging on the motorway every morning on the way to work; although, it’s less like an adrenaline rush and more like white-knuckled, abject fear.

As for my son, I think he likes the idea of extreme ironing as a sport, but I don’t think he will actually be taking it up. It would be nice if he did some normal ironing. Maybe if I pointed out its subtle dangers he might be tempted?