Listening to the radio today, amongst the top ten most romantic songs of all times I was intrigued to hear a few women confessing to the radio talk show host that they’ve bought flowers and sent it to themselves on Valentine’s Day. Then they’ve parade around the workplace either confessing to have a secret boyfriend or pondering out loud ‘who could’ve sent me those?’
I tried not to judge, after all have our ways of coping with our own stuff in light of other people’s expectations. But I did judge, just a little. I may never understand their reason but one thing I know for sure, I would never do such thing.
“Honey, why do you buy me flowers? I don’t need flowers.”
“I buy you flowers because you love them and I love you.”
“Still, it’s a waste of money.”
“Just shut up and give me a ‘thank you babe’ kiss... what kinda kiss was that?”
“A thank you babe for spending unnecessary money on expensive flowers that I don’t need kinda of kiss”
“Kiss me like you mean it... now ‘that’ was a kiss.”
“Stop buying me flowers! Ouch... and stop pinching my bum!”
Every Valentine’s Day, every one of my birthdays and every wedding anniversary we engaged in some version of that conversation.
So I guess the reason why I don’t understand women that buy themselves flowers and why I would never consider doing that myself is because I never had to.
Because I knew the bouquet of flowers I always said I didn’t want would arrive home on those special days. Underneath my complaints, and my silly reasons and my vague protests I knew I could expected the bouquet of flowers which, I would never admit but he was so right, I loved so much.
I turned off the radio feeling slightly annoyed. But the annoyance was just a veneer poorly covering the fact that today I would come home and there would be no flowers, no smart ass fake conflict, no ‘thank you, babe’ kisses.
I try to prepare myself for those special dates, but I’m just fooling myself, really. No amount of preparation can really prepare me for the sinking feeling in my stomach and the need to find a restroom and cover my mouth with my jumper so other people won’t hear me sobbing.
I try to tell myself that it’s ok. That I am blessed because I had 18 years of flowers. But as I arrive home I have to brace myself because I am gonna be disappointed anyway. So I try to prepare myself.
But once again no amount of preparation could have prepared me to see a beautiful bouquet of red roses and a Happy Valentine’s Day card waiting for me.
This time I don’t cover my mouth with my jumper as I sob tears of gratitude for my dearest friendJimmy Cynthia Chouteau from Kansas City and Jonty and Tash Zyzalo, who remembered me today and sent me the bouquet of flowers that I so desperately needed but would never admit it. The bouquet of flowers that reminded me that, even though my husband is gone, I am not forgotten.