If you felt like listening, I’d talk for hours (or at least a solid minute) about how I hate getting flowers. I’ve probably talked about it here at some point, and you probably didn’t feel like listening. Point is, I’m strangely proud of the fact that I shy away from clichéd romantic things. So I would always make it very clear to any potential romantic interest that I was nuts and did not want a token of affection in flower form anywhere near me.
Then, last year I met someone who refused to indulge my silly insistence that I hate flowers, and he brought me bright sunflowers on a random Saturday. Okay, I thought. I can handle this. I can be someone who appreciates getting nice, non-cliched flowers for no reason.
That was progress. But I still clung to the notion that to be given flowers in a public place, or on a big holiday, or not exactly to my specifications, was a thing I would not welcome.
Then yesterday, on perhaps the most romantically clichéd day of the year, I got flowers delivered to me at my office. And, contrary to everything I thought I knew about myself, I loved them. First, they were beautiful flowers; they were easy to love. But also, they did not embarrass me in front of my coworkers, whose questions and curiosity only made me feel more important. They did not cause me great hassle when I carried them home so they wouldn’t wilt all alone while I was on vacation. In fact, it made me feel special to know that if I did get any stares, it was only with the thought of, “Oh, someone loves her,” behind it.
Plus, I never realized this before, but when you carry flowers in public on Valentine’s Day, you’re suddenly a part of this unspoken competition. You look at the bunches being hauled around by men on their way home to their sweethearts, and you inspect the bouquets being carted by women on their way home from work. And, if you’re lucky, you notice that your flowers are the best out of all of them, and you just try not to feel sorry for all those other people out there who did not receive your flowers that day.
Moral of the story: one day I will stop claiming to know anything about myself with any sort of confidence, and getting flowers delivered at work–and liking it–has nudged me ever so slightly closer to that day.