hydrangea bitch

i said what i said

As we exit Fourth of July weekend, we enter the season of Hydrangea Bitch. She’s causing traffic at North Tisbury Market in the unassuming 2009 Jeep she leaves here year round. You’ll know her by her aura of royalty and the clusters of freshly beheaded hydrangeas spilling from her rattan tote.

Hydrangea Bitch is often married to Waders Guy, a dude who has never been on a fishing boat but likes to go around in fishing gear, sometimes splattered in mud from Hydrangea Bitch’s garden. They’re usually getting ready for a dinner party or a visit from their kids/ grandkids (see collage of prestigious bumperstickers on unassuming 2009 Jeep), which requires shopping and hydrangea beheading.

Our house came with several hydrangeas. Lois planted them, back when she was alive and this was her house. Some of them are happily situated in the shade, others are not. "What did you do to Lois?” I wonder as I watch them wilt each day, then puff back out at night. I’ve never cut them, not even to keep them healthy, which I know you’re supposed to do.

I want to. I want to be a Hydrangea Bitch. I can see it now—I walk outside in my Wellys, sheers in hand. In this fantasy, Freddie my dog isn’t shamelessly chomping on grass he’ll soon regurgitate, but attentively watching as I select a few choice stalks and lovingly clip them. Maybe I lay them in a whicker basket just so, and together we bring them inside and transfer them to a pitcher of cool water. Who will I be, the moment I set the hydrangeas on the table?

It seems like an arrival, and I have not arrived. I’ve been up since 5:30 am, ruminating on my job, on my unwritten newsletter, on the state of the world, on my marriage, on my friendships, on my dirty window panes. I want to be good. I want to live life well. There’s so much I am doing, yet so much more I should do.

Every woman I know feels this way. To be good, you must do everything. To live well, you must be everything. If you have a problem with this, if you feel like you’re drowning, if you’re secretly dying, that’s on you. The system is not broken; you are.

Here’s what I know: it is very hard to do even one thing well.

I like the idea of arrival. It implies, if not finality, getting to stop and rest a while. But life just keeps coming, doesn’t it? Maybe I shouldn’t wait to arrive before clipping the Hydrangeas. Maybe I should do it for Lois, because I still can.

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Updates

Weather: We’re in it now, mid-seventies to mid-eighties. Some days are densely humid, which is great for the moss on my roof. Others are crisp and glorious, which is great for me.

Currently Reading: Finished Tower of Dawn. Truly never thought I would make it through so much Chaol, but miracles happen. I am now slowly wading into Kingdom of Ash, while taking detours into other books. Problematic Summer Romance was delightful; Ali Hazelwood doesn’t miss. I’m about 100 pages into Conform by Ariel Sullivan and already in love with both of the male leads.

Currently Watching: Finally finished Midsomer Murders, then did Firefly, which was the watching equivalent to rebounding a longterm relationship with an ex that wrecked you. From there, we did Season 4 of Blown Away (if you have not become heavily invested in glass blowing, what are you waiting for?), then back into sci-fi, with Acolyte (worth it for Manny Jacinto), then Ashoka (worth it for the star whales), and now Andor (worth it to see so many actors from Midsomer Murders).