I've never been much of a flowers person. Even though I grew up in a household where flowers were a constant presence on the dining room table, I've never really understand the point of them. They're fine at weddings and other hoity toity-type events, I suppose, but the whole vase full of roses on the table where I'm supposed to be eating my oatmeal kind of perplexes me.
It's like a real life game of "something here does not belong." Flowers should be in the ground -- not on my bedside table, not resting on the tank of the toilet, and most certainly not coerced into the form of a wreath to be hung on the door.
My dislike of cut flowers is only further substantiated by the annoyance of their arrival and departure. They always seem to be gifted at an inopportune time -- presented by a well-meaning dinner guest when the hostess is already scrambling to get a pot roast out of the oven, or at a restaurant where there are no vases or convenient places to put a bouquet of flowers.
It gets even worse when they start to wilt and decay after a mere 24 hours -- leaving behind a trail of green sludge that the recipient must then clean up.
Green sludge does not a happy recipient make.
So for years I've been going about my life without feeling any modicum of sadness when my birthday passes by without any special delivery from a florist.
"I don't need no stinkin' flowers!" I scoff when I see other girls around the office with big lofty arrangements on their desks that seem to say, "Someone loves me much more than anyone loves you." I shake my head in pity as I watch their pink faces contort into happy-go-lucky grins.
"Just wait till the green sludge comes," I think. I know they won't be feeling so happy-go-lucky then.
So when my good friend Sook showed up to a celebratory dinner at Sotto this past Thursday night bearing a floral bouquet larger than my head, my initial reaction wasn't one of unbridled glee. I didn't gush or blush or squeal, "For me?!"
Clearly, I've never received flowers from a boy before.
Yet, as I sat there at dinner, the paper-wrapped bouquet of tulips, roses and hydrangeas perched on the booth next to me, I started to feel it. A warm sensation drifted over my limbs, my heart started doing that achy thing, and before I could stop myself, I started to feel just the slightest bit... special.
"Someone out there loves me enough to buy me flowers," I thought. "ME! Flowers!"
Suddenly, I couldn't wait to get them home so I could put them on display smack dab in the middle of the dining room table where I eat my oatmeal.
I couldn't wait to tear the paper away like a Christmas package.
And I couldn't wait to put them some place they didn't belong.
In my big blue teapot.
The inside crevices are going to be impossible to get clean.