Little Pink Roses

By Erin Deborah Waks

Last week, I went on a quick jog around the block to clear my head. A standard occurrence for me.

As I approached my apartment, I slowed down, wrestling with the zip on my jacket pocket and fumbling for my keys. I ground to a halt, knees creaking, then realised I was starving. A quick mental inventory of the contents of my fridge told me that there was nothing at all in there I fancied eating. 

So I turned the corner to make a quick pit stop at the supermarket. And the first thing I saw as I walked in was the flower display. 

Focus, Erin. Pasta, pesto, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. But I couldn’t walk away. I stopped in front of the bouquets and found my hand, as though out of my control, reaching towards the most gorgeous display of little pink roses.

Well, no prizes for guessing how the story ends. I bought myself the roses (and the pasta too, don’t you worry - this girl can multitask). And now, every time I walk into my kitchen, I can’t even help but smile to myself. They are so unashamedly girly and pink it almost makes me cry. Even in my PMS-induced state last week, they didn’t fail to bring innate joy to my heart. Cringe, I know. But it's true. 

It’s not the first time I’ve bought myself flowers, and it’s not the first time I’ve received them as an unnecessary and yet totally perfect gift (albeit this time from myself), but something about them gets to me. It’s the combination of just how beautiful they are, combined with the fact that I bought them purely for myself, for no reason, that reminds me how much happier life is when you pause for a moment to smell the roses. Or look at them. Or just do something small but nice for yourself that you can enjoy for thirty seconds every day.