I am oddly attracted to carnations of late.
Given how oft-maligned those sturdy grocery store standards are (how synonymous they are with John Hughe’s-era prom boutonnieres), possessing even an inkling of fondness for them just feels wrong…like a dirty little secret.
But I was picking up a few groceries last weekend and was momentarily transfixed by a particularly fetching bunch of fuchsia carnations all nestled cozily in their cellophane wrapper. I pondered their sturdy yet ruffly petals (oh the contradictions) and the sensible 3.99 price tag (for a dozen!), and then I walked away. I couldn’t pull the trigger. I had carnation shame.
The entire way home I obsessed about those damn carnations. What if I bought five bunches and jammed all 60 of those fuchsia bad boys into a massive clear cylinder. That could be chic, right? That could look awesome and unexpected and wrong in all the right ways… (Yes, that’s actually what I was thinking about on the way home from the supermarket. I have problems. I realize.)
Then today at work, I came across this shot of a dining room by the ultra chic designer Miles Redd in New York Magazine, and BAM…(holy carnation bomb Miles) I was thrust back into my carnation reverie.
It’s official. I’m all in. Loud and proud. Carnations are doing it for me.