Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

The scent of hydrangeas, the sometimes sweetly humid breeze, the beautiful bright colors. These are some of the things that you might think of when you think of a florist’s. These things definitely do play a role in the charm. I’ve been spending a lot of time lately working at a florist shop and I’m still green enough (no pun intended) that I can still readily notice just how charming everything is.

Sometimes the cardboard boxes we get rose shipments in, boxes that have supposedly traveled all the way from Ecuador, smell like wet dog. It took me a full day of the occasional sniff to equate it to that. Sometimes I look at the lily pistol smears on my fingers and know that I’ve got an organgey-brown pollen mustache from accidentally touching my face, sometimes you just know those things. Sometimes you get a cardboard cut, similar to a paper cut except you wish you were dead, and you still think back to the fact that you’re actually using your damn hands to make something tangible instead of an abstract accomplishment like in an office. Sometimes has been turning more and more into an often times.

All these sometimes add up to an experience that rivals very few in the workforce.