In this Slate article, Seth Stevenson proclaimed that he's not a slob. He washes his hair, clips his nails and brushes his teeth. He even flosses often.
But he wears wrinkled clothes.
That's because he has declared himself free from the tyranny of ironing:
My clothes are wrinkled. I know this is shocking for you to hear, so I will repeat it as plainly as I'm able: My attire exists in its natural state. It is not ironed, pressed, or steamed. My shirt-fronts shrivel. My pant-legs pucker.
Don't look down your nose at me. (And please be aware that my nostrils' hairs are as neatly trimmed as yours, if not more so. Also: well-scrubbed nose pores.) This is an important choice that I have made. I stand behind—nay, within—my wrinkled clothes, unashamed.
The benefits are manifold. I waste zero time slaving over an ironing board. Squander no money on superfluous laundry services. Budget no mindshare to the relative dishevelment of my cuffs, box pleats, and plackets.
You will say I look less than neat. You'll tell me I'm one or two corners shy of squared away. I contend that the deficiency is all yours. You are beholden to an ancient despot: the tyranny of crispness.