Home > Boston...again. > Plant your own garden.

Plant your own garden.

Like I said yesterday, it’s been two months to the day since I moved to Boston. (Assuming I finish this post before midnight. It’s 10:45 p.m.)

I started a new job this morning. Don’t get too excited; it’s just a part-time job in addition to some other things I’m going to be doing. The job is at a small, family-run, hole-in-the-wall shop in between the South End and Back Bay.

I love it. I absolutely, 100% adore the job.

I interviewed for it yesterday after randomly applying for the position without even really thinking about it. The owner e-mailed me on Monday asking me to discuss the position and after speaking on the phone with him for about 20 minutes that afternoon he invited me in to talk in person and fill out application. When I went in I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never ever considered working in a flower shop. I always thought it’d be such an idyllic job, but I never thought it would happen.

The owner spent more than an hour yesterday talking to me about the job. It was great. I could tell how much he loved his job and that in turn made me want to work hard and prove myself. He explained to me all the things that the job entails, which includes setting up the (beautiful, gorgeous, breathtaking) display of flowers outside the shop, making bouquets, helping customers and just taking care of the flowers and plant. I know I’m going to love this job because there’s always something to do or someone to help. There’s no standing around, twiddling my thumbs and tryng to look busy. Love it.

After hearing what all the job was about I was a little overwhelmed but determined to prove myself. I wanted to try something new. This job appealed to me because it’s going to be so interesting to learn about flowers and arrangements and how to take care of flowers for optimal lifespan and stuff. And come on. Flowers are happy. So how can working in a flower shop not be enjoyable?

The owner told me he’d call me later that afternoon to set up a time for me to come in and shadow an employee, just to make sure I’d be a good fit at the job.

That’s what I did today.

And woah. He told me to be at the store by 8 a.m. That’s not bad at all. Normally.

Except for the fact i haven’t been doing squat with my life the last few weeks. And have gotten on a truly terrible sleep schedule. Which meant that just because I got in bed at 11 p.m. (like a good, responsible adult I’m trying to be) did not mean I got plenty of sleep. Oh, no. It meant I laid in my bed sadly watching the time click by on my phone. Midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. Finally, I fell asleep, only to be rudely woken by my alarm at 5:30 a.m. And then my sweet best friend sent me an encouraging text message exactly one minute later. Thanks for being happy for me.

5:30 a.m. I didn’t know how long it’d take me to get to the shop this morning. I thought that I would have to leave my apartment super early in order to get over to Copley on time. I thought the trains would be jammed with weary people making their ways to work.

Nope. Took me about 15 minutes to get there. So I got up ridiculously early for no reason.

But I’m glad I did. I’m so glad. Because I love the early morning. It’s quiet and peaceful and still. It allows me to get ready without feeling too rushed. I can shower leisurely (because who else is going to be up at that godforsaken hour?) and drink my coffee in silence. I loved it.

When I left my apartment at 6:55 a.m. I walked down the street with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. It’s not possible to not feel cheerful when the day is so beautiful. The air was crisp. The sun was shining and glinting brightly off the buildings. The city was waking up and I got to witness it. (Unlike New York, Boston sleeps.) Cars were honking and almost getting in wrecks. School buses were dropping kids off and picking them up. People were gripping coffee mugs like life-preservers and rushing to work.

And the best part is that I was awake to see it. I had a purpose. I had to get breakfast, catch the T and get to where I needed to be. In the big, impersonal city of Boston someone, somewhere was counting on me and expecting me to be somewhere. 

It was one of the best feelings ever. And I felt it fitting that this occurred two months to do the day that I moved. It just felt right.

And the actual job was perfect. It’s not easy work. There’s lots of toting arrangements and making sure everything looks uniform and appealing.

But I love it because this is a store that is established in the neighborhood. They have regulars. People come each week to get flowers for their desks and to brighten up otherwise dreary offices. Women come to get a gift, just for themselves. (I’ve always wanted to do that.) And I love it because I felt like I was contributing, in some small, mundane, probably truly unimportant way to someone’s happiness.

When the man who came in and bought a bouquet of lilies and irises for his wife and spent 15 minutes writing a heartfelt note to her I felt so excited for the smile that I knew would cross her face when her husband came home. Then there was the guy with the suitcases and travel-weary smile and rumpled clothes who asked me pick out a single, perfect rose. And I knew that somewhere in Boston someone (I make no assumptions) would feel the care that went into picking out the perfect rose.

It’s satisfying. It’s gratifying. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel like not only am I making people happy in a small way I’m also being given another outlet with which to express myself. In some way it’s art. I have to make things look pretty. It’s a new muscle to learn to flex and explore and I can’t wait to learn more. 

No, it’s not the perfect corporate job I was hoping for. But again, that’s part of the adventure. This will be great for some period of time. It’s something unexpected and that’s exactly what I was hoping for when I moved here.

Two months ago.

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