Flowers

There was no way in hell I would ever want flowers. The most cliché symbol of the hopeless romantic, aside from diamond jewelry and promise rings, flowers represented all that made girls weak in my eyes. It’s like they played into their role as annoying and useless willingly, even enthusiastically. The expectation that colorful, dying plants would be one of very few indicators of love seemed ludicrous. Yet here I am, years later with a twinge in my gut that longs secretly for one of these indicators, some special tribute.

Loneliness is tough. As an episode of Scrubs once put it, “no one understands relationships like those who aren’t in one.” I keep convincing myself that it’s good to be alone, to find true happiness all on your own. That’s not true. Friends make a huge difference. Point being: we don’t tend to weight our friends with the burden of our happiness, we do with significant others. I think spending time on your own, not brooding over failed relationships of the past and not fawning over possible items of the future, is a great way to get in touch with what really makes you happy; A great way to prevent the sabotage of later relationships with expecting a companion to ‘make us happy’. Already happy: problem solved. I digress…

Why would I ever want flowers?! Because I want to feel special to someone? I grudgingly admit that maybe this girlish desire has long been stewing in my brain…or heart, I’m not sure which is in charge of emotions anymore. I drive my car on a sunny day listening to music while the back of my brain/heart revels in the giddy thought of someone playing “I’ve just seen a face” by the Beetles and thinking of me. Silly? Oh my God make it stop! But it doesn’t; that backroom of the brain/heart monster gallery has been secretly buying up real estate.

I try to stay busy. I hope these wisps of girly desire go relatively unnoticed or perhaps passed off as PMS, hormones, bad hair days or other excuses pawned onto woman by most of the guy types I am around on a regular basis. I certainly don’t blame them. I can’t even distinguish my own emotions from the effects of the hormones controlled by the same brain that controls the emotions! Or was that the heart? I don’t expect anyone else to know either.

I’d want flowers; for the right reason and from the right person. Why is it always about being right? Because it’s about who understands that you never in hell wanted flowers but knows it’s the right thing. I figure someone will eventually understand what goes on in my head and will be willing to laugh right along with me. That would just feel like the right thing to do.

When I get flowers, I think we will both laugh.

Select an option from above