ode to a second love.

When I hear the phrase "hopelessly addicted," my mind unquestionably wanders to those notions of want when I undoubtedly find myself lost amidst the lilies, tulips, hydrangeas, and gerbera daisies en route to the deli meats at the Harris Teeter. I acquired, like most women, this astounding desire to not only flood my home with the sweet, enticing smell of fresh flowers but to bring something aesthetically simple yet entirely room-altering to this nest of ours. It's nearly impossible for me to refuse them. Nearly. I try for the sake of the husband. I do. But I'm fairly weak when it comes to resistance. My body seemingly has this innate ability to repel it. As much as this repellent nature may aggravate the man, he's learning to cope... by mode of ignoring the reality of my hopeless addiction. But he aides more than he'd like to admit...

A simplistic just because...

Or an affectionate (and intentional) stray away from the generic on Valentine's Day; his personal favorite.

He caters to my every whim and fancy, that man. And typically, in every circumstance, it's entirely undeserved. Entirely.

But if there were any scenario in which heart palpitations were to inevitably ensue, it's the rare pleasure of coming across what my heart becomes most hopeless for: hydrangeas. If the likelihood ever arose that I happened to only have enough to purchase milk, eggs, and bread in the same instance that I found myself face-to-face with these massive, bulbed beauties, you can say goodbye to any ounce of internal conflict in this ladies' body. Hydrangeas over survival. No debate necessary.

Of my grandmother's making, freshly clipped from her garden.

I melted mid-aisle over these. I wish I were kidding.

I'm hopelessly addicted, but all the better for it. All the better...