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.