So frou-frou. So emotional. So indicative of some high-handed, high-maintenance, messy state of mind. All poodles and PMS and salon pedicures. All Barbies and beaches. Not to mention bitches. Oh, pink looks sweet, smells sweet, and tastes better. Think cotton candy, watermelon balls, soothing Pepto-Bismol even. What’s to fear from such a delicately shaded sensibility?
Usually.
So I’m in the supermarket last night. See, they position the flower shop just inside the entrance where you’re still open to frivolity, not yet disgusted by the five dollar boxes of cereal and the four dollar loaves of bread. Ooohhh. Roses. Not even close to being my favorite flower, but they’re right there, and wouldn’t the white ones look nice on my counter? Or the passionate red ones – Mmm. About that time, I should be pushing these thoughts aside and heading for the bread aisle, but then these silly pink roses start seducing me with their obvious glow. And, I am sucked in so easily.
Maybe it’s too much work and too little play of late. Maybe it’s chanting crowds channeling too much fear of death panels and too little condemnation of Big Med greed. Maybe it’s long rains in a short summer. Maybe it’s the tireless romantic in me …
Tonight, the cicadas are singing, and big pink roses grace my kitchen counter. The blooms have unfurled in the heat of the day, at once delicate, exotic and vaguely dangerous. Despite their gaudiness, their scent is surprisingly subtle, and suddenly, I am not so tired or weary or whatever I have been this summer. Somehow, a bit of frou-frou has re-established balance somewhere, and I am restored. And content.
OK. Just a little pink.
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