Peonies are my favourite flowers.
They’re actually one of my favourite things.
So when May rolls around I get excited about filling my flat with their exploding, colourful petals. I buy them for myself. Last year I dropped more than enough hints to the ex. I think I even said, “I wish someone would buy me peonies!”. He didn’t believe in buying flowers. Just like he didn’t believe in the colour pink, breast reduction surgery, or not being a complete asshole.
Anyway, this week when I got back from holiday I was genuinely excited about buying myself peonies. Unlike my relationships, they did not disappoint. So beautiful. So eager to pop open and bask in sunshine on my windowsill.
But, I’m sitting watching them this morning as the petals start to fall, and drawing comparisons with the pizza of doom.
When I get my paws on peonies, they haven’t popped yet. There’s the anticipation. Hoping they’re going to look great. I make space for them in my home.
They open up and I actually am compelled to post a bunch of pictures on Facebook, such is my glee with how amazing they look.
But I start to worry. How long will they last?
And then petals do start to drop.
And drop.
And there comes a point when you wonder if it’s time to throw them away. They start to look a little ugly. They stink a little. These aren’t the gorgeous, feathery flowers you were looking at a week ago.
You have to get rid of the leftovers. Keeping dead flowers feels kind of morbid. The joy is gone.
But, remember, May will come again.
Pizza of Doom 
Peonies are my favorite flowers too. I was horrified to read in “The Language of Flowers” last night that peonies mean “anger” in the Victorian language of flowers. I wonder if this was the author taking liberties, as peonies are used in a lot of weddings and that would be pretty tragic to symbolize anger at the beginning of a lifelong union.
Anger?! Oh noooooooo. I love them so much. They don’t even look in the least bit angry!
I know, they’re gorgeous! Apparently there was a whole passive-aggressive language to flowers in the old days. If a situation “required” you to give a gift to someone (evil stepmother’s birthday?), you could present her with flowers that held a less than pleasant meaning.