diana cowgill

It’s been forever since I’ve blogged, and for that I’m sorry. Writers who don’t write are like smoking vegetarians. They’re doing the wrong thing, they know they’re doing the wrong thing, they know there’s no excuse for what they’re doing. And yet they puff merrily along, self-flagellating and confessing the whole time. So again, whoops.

I’ve been something of a miserable sod for a while due to a nasty bit of heartache. It’s a good, distracting, all-consuming thing. I’ve never been properly disconsolate over anything so un-dire as a boy not wanting to hang out with me anymore, so my superego considers this a learning experience.

MAJOR POSITIVE! I’m beginning to see glimpses of Life After. Good jokes are funnier, people are more dear. And this marathon of a process of getting my groove back has got me to thinking about frivolous, fleeting things that make me happy. Things I can’t justify, so I don’t prioritize, which is really stupid.

Flowers make me happy, which makes me happy. That mild bliss; the positive experience of flowers really encompasses joie de vivre. Because what good are they to us? Really? We can’t eat them, and it’s awfully heady to appreciate something just because it’s part of the life cycle. Flies are vital to the life cycle. Ants. Opossums. Horrible things fit very elegantly into the complexities of the circle of life, but that alone doesn’t make us love them. Doesn’t bring us joy. Flowers are materially useless to us, so it blows my mind that pretty much everyone LOVES flowers. They serve their purpose, they do their deal with bees, and then our capacity to appreciate the look and smell and feel of them (seriously. Close your eyes and rub a rose petal on your lip. Sooo soft) is really just a bonus.

They’re these fantastic things, so why am I not constantly surrounded by them? Why are we not all constantly surrounded by them? If you live in a terrible part of the world and you have a real winter, then you have a pass. Or allergies. But people without allergies in sunny parts of the world, why don’t we just make a point to give ourselves this small, beautiful thing?

I’ve been an absolute mess. Beyond reason, beyond sense, heartsick as can be. And the best thing I could have done would be to bury myself in blossoms. I should have stuck my middle finger in the air, picked up twenty bucks, and blown it all at the questionable looking flower van at the Camarillo Farmers Market.

I should have bucked up and arranged three or four elaborate bouquets and felt better because of it. A simple bandage to stem an excruciating bleed. Given myself permission to take a breather.

I’m a bit of a doofus though, which is why I’m just figuring this out. I’ve seen the light now, though, and am officially spreading the word. We should all be around flowers all the time. Pretty smelling flowers in our favorite colors. Sparse, busy, structured, who cares. And they’ll die after a few days but so what? Get some more.

I say, no more waiting for something lovely. Boys are supposed to give flowers, and they should. But they don’t. Never often enough. Never ever often enough. So boys are unreliable. When it comes to flowers, a gesture that every sappy movie tries to encourage, young men fall flat. And whatever. That’s fine. I don’t need you to buy flowers for me. You should, but you don’t have to. I like them, so I will get flowers. For me. Por moi.

And you know what else, ladies? I’ll start getting them for you. And not just at dinner parties, either. I’ll just show up with some flowers because I can. Because they’re wonderful and life is too precious to not show up with flowers now and then.

Interesting tidbits: my eldest brother once got his arm stuck in a miniature football helmet vending machine. The fire department came and I started to cry. But after they soaped him up, he slipped right out. At my company party, I got yelled at by a magician.