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Sending flowers to a man is a tricky proposition. Although secretly I believe they all find it flattering, depending on the circumstances, in public is a different story. Specially if the flowers you send him mean death.
I am the Procrastination Princess. I got that title since I was a young girl and waited until my mother yelled at me to clean up my room. Later on I cemented my reputation as I waited until the last day before an exam to review the material. I was a C average college student because it was common to go to class without reviewing, just with what little I retained in my head. And later on, I proved it by sending a man I liked the wrong message, with flowers.
The object of my obsession is a fabulous man and a friend to this day. He had all the qualities of a good man: he loved to read, was not only smart but also educated. And no, smart and educated is not the same thing. I used to think he was special because he had that thing, he was tender-hearted, spiritual without being religious and sincere. He loved poetry and he sang like an angel. And he wanted to be a lawyer. I guess that dichotomy attracted me even more.
I decided to send him flowers to let him know how I felt about him. With the simple message “I hope these flowers make you understand how I feel about you”, I was sure to make the right impression. I also chose my favorite, white roses, symbol of purity and love.
Imagine my surprise when he stopped talking to me. I was devastated thinking that he did not feel the same way. I was horrified to think what he was telling his friends. In time, pain lead to anger and after a month of stewing in my own thoughts, I decided to confront the idiot that had hurt me so bad.
He was shocked by my assault. “You are offended. I am the one who should be offended. You should be happy I am talking to you”. What the heck was he talking about? I sent him the most beautiful bouquet of roses, a baker’s dozen, and he was mad at me?
It turns out that my friend is superstitious and knows more about flowers than I did at the time. Apparently, where he comes from, white roses are a symbol of death and, well, we all know some people don’t like the number 13. He thought I wished him death when he read my wish for him to know exactly how I felt about him.
Every time we talk, I remember that day and how stupid I felt. I never did tell him how I really felt, only that he got it all wrong. Some days I wonder how he felt.
It taught me a great lesson. After that debacle, I made sure to tell guys up front how much I loved white roses and how I believed they were a symbol of pure love. And yes, to this day, the man in my life now, knows that if he wants to score big, all he has to do is show up with a dozen white roses and a pink one, just in case.
