You
Don’t Bring Me Flowers So I Bought Them Myself
I
had one of my moments of absolute clarity when I was walking
down my street this afternoon and as usual it made me stop
dead in my tracks. You see I live in this lovely little
section of Toronto known as Forest Hill, a mostly Jewish
community filled with family owned bakeries, funky and pricey
family owned home décor stores and, most importantly
to me, family owned flower shops. It was in front of one
such shop that the Gods struck me with a little lightening
bolt. I hate it when this happens because I always seem
to be in a public place when the thought strikes and the
people around me seem to think that there’s something
seriously wrong with me, but today a thought struck me so
hard that I was fully dumbfounded for several moments: I
realized that I could describe some of my past boyfriends
in terms of flowers. I know it sounds strange but at that
particular moment standing in front of that store with the
nice old Jewish man staring at me like I was going to rob
him, it made complete sense.
For
instance, let’s examine The Crush. You all remember
him, don’t you? The Crush that made my knees weak,
my mouth water and my mind turn to mush? You might also
remember that The Crush and I began a torrid affair earlier
this year…well, the affair unfortunately ended rather
bitterly when he informed me that he had been lying to me;
he had been living with his girlfriend (which he had sworn
he didn’t have) and he was actually going to propose
to her. And this wasn’t even the worst part of it;
the worst part was that he dropped this on me while lying
in my bed after having sex. Yes, dear readers, Yours Truly
was finally crushed by The Crush, heart broken and disillusioned,
bruised and guilt ridden that I had actually been The Other
Woman in his life. I was the whore he came to when his Madonna
couldn’t satisfy him. And so standing in front of the
little Jewish shop of flowers I chose one long stemmed blood
red rose and promptly pricked my finger on one of its many
thorns.
Now
we move on to my pal Rupert. No, he was never my boyfriend,
and yes, he hurt me. If you asked me two months ago if there
was any possibility that Rupert would desert me I would
have replied with a resounding ‘No!’ but desert
me he did. For a few weeks I felt like I was on top of the
world because I had found a kindred spirit, a man who broke
through my armor and made himself cozy inside my heart.
Unfortunately Rupert decided to leave town without telling
me and without leaving so much as a ‘Cheers Mate’
on my answering machine. For six weeks I was left to think
the worst about him and myself. Once again I had been duped
into thinking that I could be special to someone of the
opposite sex and I was left alone to clean up the mess that
he had left behind. But this is not the end of Rupert. Two
weeks ago Yours Truly received that long awaited phone call
only I wasn’t waiting for it anymore. There was no
explanation, no apology, only that he had been traveling
and had been too busy to email. My response? ‘If the
NASA shuttle astronauts can send emails home, you have no
excuse.’ That was the true end of Rupert. And so the
Lily will now forever remind me of my ex-mate, it’s
expensive, smelly and it’s little seedlings stain anything
they come into contact with.
Finally
I will examine my favorite mistake. (Favorite only because
he has given me so much fodder through the years that I
can’t help but thank him.) You remember him, don’t
you? The man who thought testicle re-arranging was an Olympic
sport? The man who was so obsessed with his car that I actually
named it ‘Christine’? Well, I am still dealing
with the aftermath of that disaster. Even five years later
I still catch myself looking in the mirror and repeating
things that he said to me. ‘Lose Weight. Stop reading
the Tarot. Stop reading period. Don’t talk unless I
say. Don’t wear those clothes you look ugly. Lose Weight.
I’ll put your face through that glass window. If you
get me sick I’ll choke you to death. Lose Weight. Lose
Weight. Lose Weight.’ There you have it. Not exactly
the healthiest relationship. And so today I decided that
the man my sister still refers to as The Village Idiot was
not a flower but a Dandelion, a hard to kill weed that’s
damned near impossible to get rid of, but a weed whose head
I cheerfully pop off whenever I see it.
Despite
these little setbacks I am still an avid flower lover. I
love walking into the shops and having the scent overwhelm
me, but today I walked in with a purpose. I put back the
rose that had bitten me and walked past the lilies without
a second glance and instead walked out with bunch of bright
yellow daisies. Daisies are a happy little flower, sturdy,
long lasting and lightly scented and most importantly they
don’t remind me of anything negative.
They
remind me of me.
he