My Weirdness Knows No Bounds
Sunday morning, whilst I was at Kroger, picking up some flowers for my sister in law, a new mommy, I got sad. Just right there in the middle of Kroger.
It’s something about those floral departments in grocery stores. I’ve noticed when I visit one I often hear myself sigh and leave with a vague sense of melancholy and discontent but I never exactly put my finger on it.
That morning, though, I got it. Those flowers – great masses of them – and this particular place had all my favorites – tulips in every color, bright splashes of gerbera daisies, snapdragons, ballet-shoe-pink roses – those flowers kind of get to me.
What makes me sad about grocery store floral department is the sentiment behind it. Conceivably if you’re dating someone and it’s your birthday or Valentine’s Day and they’re thinking flowers, they’re going to visit a good florist and order a lavish arrangement.
But at the grocery store – that speaks of domesticity, kicked back weekends lounging around, being at the comfortable with each other but not-(yet)-lazy-and-complacent stage. You know, Thursday after work, he stops by the store to pick up a few things for a nice weekend and to look for your favorite things because he likes to see the grin on your face, and hey, I bet she’d like some flowers. It’s last minute and unplanned and actually a little depressing, now that I think of it.
Ever so often I will treat myself to flowers and I don’t spend much money on them – less than $20. Let me tell you – I get $20 worth of pleasure from the flowers. I stop and admire them each and every time I pass by. I lean close and study the colors. I don’t pretend they’re from a guy (I may be weird but I’m not a psycho), I appreciate them because I got them for ME. And dammit I am fabulous enough to deserve them, however you want to define deserve.
I’m trying to reconcile this; on the hand I am happier than I have ever been in my life. Like, ever. I’ve never felt so free yet grounded and independent yet supported by friends and family. I feel creative and strong.
Yet at the same time, I wish for someone to share it with. And it rather pisses me off. I’m happy now, not pretend happy, not wishful wistful happy, but full on happy. So what’s my deal. Why the fuck do I think I have to have someone to share it with?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not mooning about. I’m also not waiting for my prince to come – oh, no, I’m very proactive on the dating side. Some might call me a dating phenom. The term “cyberslut” has been bandied about by less kind people. Others might call me crazy for going to meet a complete stranger, but whatever.
I’ve had so many freaking dates. Lots of first dates. I’ve broken the three-date curse but haven’t had anything resembling a relationship. Why did I write this? Now I’m depressing myself.
Friday, on the way home? Maybe I’ll go by the grocery store and get myself some flowers. I deserve it, right?
It’s something about those floral departments in grocery stores. I’ve noticed when I visit one I often hear myself sigh and leave with a vague sense of melancholy and discontent but I never exactly put my finger on it.
That morning, though, I got it. Those flowers – great masses of them – and this particular place had all my favorites – tulips in every color, bright splashes of gerbera daisies, snapdragons, ballet-shoe-pink roses – those flowers kind of get to me.
What makes me sad about grocery store floral department is the sentiment behind it. Conceivably if you’re dating someone and it’s your birthday or Valentine’s Day and they’re thinking flowers, they’re going to visit a good florist and order a lavish arrangement.
But at the grocery store – that speaks of domesticity, kicked back weekends lounging around, being at the comfortable with each other but not-(yet)-lazy-and-complacent stage. You know, Thursday after work, he stops by the store to pick up a few things for a nice weekend and to look for your favorite things because he likes to see the grin on your face, and hey, I bet she’d like some flowers. It’s last minute and unplanned and actually a little depressing, now that I think of it.
Ever so often I will treat myself to flowers and I don’t spend much money on them – less than $20. Let me tell you – I get $20 worth of pleasure from the flowers. I stop and admire them each and every time I pass by. I lean close and study the colors. I don’t pretend they’re from a guy (I may be weird but I’m not a psycho), I appreciate them because I got them for ME. And dammit I am fabulous enough to deserve them, however you want to define deserve.
I’m trying to reconcile this; on the hand I am happier than I have ever been in my life. Like, ever. I’ve never felt so free yet grounded and independent yet supported by friends and family. I feel creative and strong.
Yet at the same time, I wish for someone to share it with. And it rather pisses me off. I’m happy now, not pretend happy, not wishful wistful happy, but full on happy. So what’s my deal. Why the fuck do I think I have to have someone to share it with?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not mooning about. I’m also not waiting for my prince to come – oh, no, I’m very proactive on the dating side. Some might call me a dating phenom. The term “cyberslut” has been bandied about by less kind people. Others might call me crazy for going to meet a complete stranger, but whatever.
I’ve had so many freaking dates. Lots of first dates. I’ve broken the three-date curse but haven’t had anything resembling a relationship. Why did I write this? Now I’m depressing myself.
Friday, on the way home? Maybe I’ll go by the grocery store and get myself some flowers. I deserve it, right?
posted by KDA at 6:05 PM
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