I have a running 'joke' with my sort-of-adopted Non Son, Guy. Every year I tell him when sweet peas (my favorite flowers IN THE WORLD) are blooming. And for the past two years, I have also informed him when bouquets of sweet peas are for sale at the store in which my pharmacy is located.
Guy has yet to bring me any sweet peas. But I keep trying . . .
We discussed it one day last week. I told him that Friday, which was destined to be a bit of a bummer kind of day for me, would be the perfect day to come see me at work and, on his way in, stop by the flower display to pick out some lovely blossoms for me.
"Would you be upset if I told you I have other plans that afternoon? I'm going to the Mariner's game," he explained with sincerity.
So much for my for my baseless hope that one day he'll do one thing--just one thing--to make me happy.
Friday afternoon found me at work (on a day I wasn't scheduled to be there) feeling kind of low. Out of the clear blue sky, one of the women from the floral department came to my window carrying a stunning bouquet of flowers--roses and lilies, all luscious shades of reds and purples. And for one split second, the most inane notion raced straight to my heart, "Did he really? Did he actually make arrangements for flowers to be brought to me even though he couldn't come see me himself?"
I hadn't even had enough time to knock myself off that puffy, pink cloud of a pipe dream before the floral lady said to me, "These flowers are a little too old to sell, but they're still kind of pretty. Do you mind if I leave them here on your counter?"
Not only a cruel twist, but an apt analogy for my station in life.
O, Irony, thou art one stone cold bitch.