I love balloons. They say every man has his price. People who know me well know that mine can be calculated in balloons.
Just one will make me smile. A big round helium one especially. In bright sunny yellow, or ocean blue, or purple. Yes, purple, that’s it. Oh, and pearly. I love the pearly finish. White is nice too. Or maybe emerald green, or sassy copper. Silver! Gold! Let’s have one shaped like a maple leaf, or a buttterfly, a squid, maybe a duck. A daisy, a Christmas tree, a donkey. Edgar Allen Poe. A caterpillar.
There’s no such thing as too many balloons. Blow up forty in all colors and we’ll bap them around the living room. Give me helium balloons in clusters of five, with weights, and I’ll put them indoors and out. Make a rainbow arch of a hundred over my house and I’ll know I’m having the birthday party of a lifetime. Bring me balloons! I’m yours.
But . . . you already knew this about me, didn’t you?
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Has a balloon ever made me cry? Well, nearly, but only because I was delighted. For a certain (ahem) birthday, my husband gave me two balloons that said 30 on them.