I wish I could be that girl who likes getting flowers.

There once was a time that I did enjoy getting them. The act of some guy going into a store he probably knows nothing about and just picking something he thinks looks pretty and I would like is just astounding to me. I can’t even imagine someone wanting to go so far out of his comfort zone for me! What could I have done to inspire a man to do such a thing?

Well, it turns out I don’t really inspire that kind of behavior. I tend to warmly encourage the type of remedial repetitional behavior that comes from pure obligation and not love. Journey with me back in time to when this deflowering started.

Every Friday, I would get one half dead rose. The first and second time my boyfriend gave them to me, I thought that it was so cute. A boy before never gave me flowers and I subscribed to all that girlishness that surrounded flower giving that girls were supposed to just feel so special after receiving perfumed perfection. By the third week, I was starting to wonder what I was going to do with all the dying flowers. My mother suggested I put them in a bible. All I had was a paperback copy of the New Testament left over from my brief encounter with catholic school. I figured that would have to do, so I opened up the bible and squished the first, second, and third crunchy flower tops into different sections of The Gospel According to Mark.

Within two months, my bible looked like it ate another bible. Every couple of pages, there was another rose in a different state of decay inside of it. That didn’t stop the dying rose parade from showing up every Friday at my door. Nothing stopped them from coming and in time I got so used to them that they held no meaning. It was just a routine dance. He would bring the flower, I was to act like I loved it and when he wasn’t looking I threw the wretched thing in the garbage. I had no use for them and I was beginning to feel like an obligation. Maybe I read to far into this rose thing, but I just can’t be someone’s obligation.

But the flower dullifaction didn’t stop there.

When my mother died, everyone sent flowers. I didn’t want to deal with her passing and the flowers were the cheerful reminder that she wasn’t coming home. I didn’t want to smell flowers; I wanted to smell her cigarette smoke. I couldn’t stand looking at their beautiful colors; I wanted a chance to stare one more time into my mother’s ever changing hazel eyes.

Those flowers did nothing to make me feel better. I got them because she was dead and once again, people felt obligated to send me flowers in hopes to make me feel less upset. They had the opposite effect.

But as I get older, I still can’t help yearning for the simple things. I want to be a girl who that man. That man who walks down the street thinking his manly thoughts and suddenly he sees a flower shop. He walks in because he has to do it. Although he is immediately overwhelmed by the colors and the scents, he knows that something worthwhile awaits him if he just stays the course. The reward comes to him. He looks into the back right corner and is blown away by the sheer beauty of the lone flower sitting in a black tube. With a finger, he motions to the florist that is the flower he needs. She begins to go into detail about the care, type, and smell of this flower, yet he doesn’t hear a word of it. All he knows is that is the flower that represents the woman of his soul.

That night, he comes over and he has the flower behind his back. Of course I assume he is here to kill me and he is hiding a knife behind his back. Before I can finish dialing the last one on my cell phone, he presents the flower to me. Looking me directly in the eye he says, “ It made me think of you.”

I want to be that girl who can inspire a man and not be his obligation.