Pink of Perfection

Our older brother–a jambalaya-, football-, and philosophy-loving man of 6’4″ who grows his own tomatoes and Habanero peppers–has a list of five things to do to improve his mood. It reads like a modified version of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs:

Eat Something
Drink Something
Take a Nap
Take a Shower
Exercise

It’s a simple list–much more practical than mine: get in bed; watch the opening montage of the Devil Wears Prada; leave town, etc.

Last night when I hopped from the train to the platform in my threadbare satin shoes at 11:45 p.m., bed loomed like a concession, though, not a luxury. Sometimes commuting feels nice–sexy, even–in the way it bookends a day with crowded solitude. But last night it was awful. And I’d left the Kathryn Chetkovich essay I’d intended to read on the train–a 21 page printout about the envy she feels for her boyfriend, Jonathan Franzen–in the tray of a communal printer at work.

At the risk of sounding like a complete misery-guts, I washed my hair at home and wondered, can this day be saved?

I ate a honey crisp apple. I padded into the living room. Then I grabbed the candlesticks I bought for last week’s dinner party (I made beef bourguignon. It was almost as good as beef stroganoff.) and set them onto a mirrored side table. These weren’t mere votives or wacky, tacky and cloying Yankee candle affairs. They were beautiful, drippy sticks and their light bent into rainbows on the glass. This must be what it feels like to light a devotional in church, I marveled.

In any case, I perked right up–partly because I so enjoyed taking this picture. My brother would totally gag, but for me–and perhaps, for you–a moment of good lighting, a pair of pajamas, and (who am I kidding) a cup of wine can indeed save the day. (Especially if you know that when you wake up tomorrow, you won’t be drinking your coffee in the shadow of a man. )

One would hope in the absence of perils such as hunger, homelessness, or lovelessness, we would be happy. Too often our highly evolved selves teeter quite near the top of Maslow’s pyramid, and we find our needs not as simple as they could be. Happiness, self-esteem, and excitement should rule the day, or at the very least, we should not be unduly mired in ennui, ridden with anxiety and self-doubt. When we are unreasonably unwell, thank heavens we have people to tell us to take off our shit-colored glasses (thank you, Sebastian) and give ourselves a treat (thank you, Mom).

My treat lay at the flower shop. I bought a bouquet of heady roses that are the very pink of perfection and an armload of paperwhite bulbs to watch bloom through the winter months. On my walk back to the office, I passed a police officer on a handsome bay. “Lucky you, you got flowers,” he said. “Is it your birthday?” I went over to pet his horse, and his nose was velvety soft. “No, I just bought them for myself.” “Good for you. You gotta celebrate. Everyday above ground is a good day, right?” I smiled up at him. “Right,” I said.

Usually I turn to fortune cookies and horoscopes for dime store philosophy, but this police officer had spoken the truest words I had heard all day. Smiling to myself with gratitude, I took a turn and accidentally ended up on the wrong street. I admired the bathing suits in the window of Eres, envied a vintage red Schwinn locked to a stop sign, and sidestepped uneven cobblestones.

A random assortment of sensuous treats — nuzzling the horse, smelling my roses, discovering new streets worth exploring — had combined to create lenses that were a lot more rose-colored than shit-colored. I felt open to the world and all its unknown, unpredictable delights again.

The roses, their ivory petals tinged with pink, sit by my computer monitor and keep me sane from 9-5. The bulbs are taking root in my apartment. Using fabric remnants and leftover trimmings, I recycled some old soup and bean cans into impromptu flower pots.

For your own, glue fabric scraps or leftover wrapping papers unto a tin can and trim with sewing basket odds and ends. Then pour a bit of gravel in the bottom of each vessel you are using, place a bulb inside, and surround with more rocks about 3/4 of the way up the sides of the bulb until it is securely anchored. Watch over the weeks as they shoot up strong green stalks and then bloom into an intoxicating bouquet. Watch, too, as the slightest alterations in your routine can make a world of difference in your perspective.