It is two days before
Easter, and the flower sections of grocery stores are full of
hydrangeas. Purple, blue and pink
blossoms as large as balloons are crowding out traditional lilies and
tulips.
For years, I would be
all over this display, checking the health of the flowers, looking at the
prices, and calculating the possibility of these plants surviving the holiday
weekend so that I could use them as part of my up-coming volunteer reception decor. Often I would conclude that they wouldn’t
make it. You get a lot of impact with hydrangeas and a great hit of colour
which is why I liked to use them. But they have no staying power, and when they
expire, they look very sad, indeed.
I am sure that for
years to come, I will instinctively want to inspect grocery store
hydrangeas. Some habits are hard to
extinguish. But like a nightmare from
which one awakes with relief, I can now
give myself a shake, and happily move to another part of the store. Reception decorations are no longer my concern. I do not -- repeat, do not-- have to worry about the flowers.
I could always buy a
pot of hydrangeas for myself, of course.
Except that I am
totally and completely sick of them.
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