I will be the gladdest thing under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
-  Edna St. Vincent Millay

Recently, a couple bloggers remarked on getting flowers from their partners. There was genuine appreciation, enjoyment, and love seen in the giving and receiving of flowers.  It was really, really sweet.

Antonio has never given or sent me flowers.  Not once, EVER.

When I read the blogs, I thought, “Awww, how cute!”

Then I thought, “There is probably something SERIOUSLY wrong with me that I hate to get flowers, huh? Everyone else seems to like it…”

Because the fact that Antonio has never given me flowers? I can’t even begin to describe how much I love that about him.  I can’t think of a less loving gesture than “Here, sweetheart, I got you The Gift That Rots And Dies Before Your Very Eyes!”

Yes.  I realize I’m probably the only one who thinks about flowers that way.  My blog, my insanity.  So hush.

Don’t get me wrong, I love flowers themselves.  They’re gorgeous. 

But, see, I also like kittens. And I would be repulsed if The Man showed up one day with a kitten’s head and said, “Here, baby, I know you like kittens, so I cut the head off one and brought it to you.  If you store it right, it’ll take a week to rot and stink before you have to throw it away!”

The repulsion would be higher with a kitten’s head, sure.  But cut flowers are just… *shudder*  They look nice for a bit, but they are dead in your arms the minute you get them.  That vase of water is a crude life support system that will fail, and fail very quickly.

And then those pretty flowers will turn putrid shades of brown. They will drop pollen and petals on your furniture as their cells wither and die. They will make their water stink like death and decay.   Their silent death rattle is sad and ugly.  And they will have to be disposed of.

(Incidentally, it boggles my mind that we bring flowers to  sickbeds.  Look, I got these hacked off flowers to sit next to you.  Watch them wilt and die.  Oh, and while you’re at it, get better soon!)

Now, I might cut flowers from my own garden, if I’ve got company coming over for dinner or it’s a holiday or something.  I also would use nice linens too.  And I wouldn’t refill a cup I’d been using all day when we sat down to dinner.  I’d do all those things for the same reason – sure they are more effort, sure they make more work for me, but the guests will probably appreciate the atmosphere.  I sure as hell don’t appreciate it enough by myself or just with family to use pressed linen napkins every time I eat.  It’s work and it’s stupid to do in everyday life.

So my plea has always been:  Please don’t bring me flowers.

Bring me a potted plant.  Bring me seedlings in a tray.  Bring me a grow-your-own herb garden. Bring me potting soil and gardening gloves.  Bring me something that I can nurture and tend to and watch it live and breath and grow.  Bring me something alive.

I’d rather symbolize love, thought, care, etc. with something growing than something rotting.

It never strikes me as odd, the way I feel about cut flowers. 

And it never strikes me as odd, the way I feel about the M/s dynamic.

But in both cases, when I’m looking at the rest of the world I get the feeling I’m a bit of an outlier.

And that’s okay.  I’d rather have this relationship with no dying flowers.

I’m a happy girl.