Every two weeks, I buy myself flowers. I like the satisfaction of taking a giant, cheap, messy, store-bought bouquet from its cellophane home, cathartically pruning, snipping and making sense of its chaos, then arranging the freshly-trimmed, cleaned-up stems in a bowl on my kitchen table. Their greeting when I walk in the back door always makes me happy.
Over the weekend, I went to the store to replenish my current, wilting assortment, and made a startling discovery: the price for my usual bouquet of basic flowers had spiked. Severely.
My mostly-filler-but-still-really-pretty bundle o’ flora had gone up to $14.99 from $8.99. Almost $15 for a hidden and bent – thus approaching death – gerbera daisy, a stem of burgundy alstroemeria, two stems of green chrysanthemums, a boatload of seeded eucalyptus filler and a smattering of red carnations. And by “smattering,” I mean two.
Most girls scoff at carnations. I, however, adore them. They’re cheap, and they last forever before they brown or faint so that, my friends, means more bang for your buck. I thought about going elsewhere to see if I could get only carnations for a fraction of the cost, but figured I might be pushing it. Besides, I’d just be wasting gas to track down flowers at a price that many florists would scoff at this time of year, this being the week of Valentine’s Day and all.
So for the record, yes, I still bought them. If I spread the cost out over the next two weeks, it would be about a dollar a day. For flowers. Which make me smile. And since my wine consumption has plummeted lately, I’m more than OK with this one-time floral fee spike.
I’d have been heartbroken if there were no flowers to be had whatsoever, so I suppose the price gouging makes me thankful that there were any to choose from at all. This time last year, I received a beautiful stem of orchids, but from an individual who ended up having a penchant for extreme kinkdom and dressing like a pirate. Makes the single life and my pricey, filler-laden bouquet even more appealing, no?