Every Now and Then, a Paralegal Has to Buy Herself Some Flowers

I’m a middle-aged Southern female, born and bred not to ask a man out on a date, and to daintily squeal with delight when a fellow brings me a bouquet. But I’m also a big disappointment to my mama.

I buy my own flowers, albeit in the produce section of the grocery store on clearance. If I weren’t engaged to the only man in ten counties who’d put up with me, I’d ask for that first date. Maybe.

Every now and then, a paralegal has to buy herself some flowers. My eyes are practically crossed together from looking at medical records all day. Handwritten hen-scratching from doctors is the worst. I need something natural and beautiful to look at and allow my eyes to relax and uncross.

And flowers help ease the trauma of tearing around the corner to use the firm copier and running into an exhibit poster featuring photos of open, oozing wounds that someone left propped up against a wall. Constantly running into a vase of fresh flowers in my kitchen helps lessen the visual trauma.

Plus, I know the client that was frustrated with the slow movement of litigation and yelled at me mostly for being the bearer of no news would have sent me flowers after she called me an idiot and slammed down the phone, if she’d thought of it.

So today I bought myself a $4.00 bouquet of pink roses, which apparently convey appreciation and joyfulness. I deserve them, Mama.