Confessions! Something nice.

I've been thinking about today's question in between crises (Just the usual; The Dancer once again made the mistake of trying to keep up with the Cowgirl, and the Cowgirl once again forgot that she has twice the body mass as her sister. Somehow that resulted in a huge crash on the staircase, frozen peas on the face, a bountiful amount of tears from both culprits and a ticked off Tapper. All while the Artist was making a pleasant visit for church. Grrr....) Wait, what was I supposed to writing about?

Right. The confession. So the question I've been pondering is:

What is something kind that you do just for yourself?

And then the answer was staring me in the face. Right on my kitchen table. So I snatched a picture to show you.
My weekly shopping trip is obscenely expensive no matter how many coupons and sales I hit, but I still manage to plunk down an extra five dollars for fresh flowers at Walmart. It's a horrible investment. They don't last. They don't feed or entertain or teach. They are just for me and I have no justification other than I like them. I actually love them. This week it was tulips, but I'll take anything. Except roses. I've never liked roses.
Every time I pass my table it feels like they are smiling at me. I can forgive myself for the laundry on the couch and the graham crackers in the carpet because that little spot- my kitchen table- looks like something out of a magazine. My eyes follow them across the room like sunflowers follow the light in the sky. I steal glimpses, continually, every day, to make sure they are still there. And maybe, just for a moment, I feel like a girl who deserves fresh flowers every day.