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Of Marigolds and Men. (*edited)

    Men I adore don’t buy me flowers.

     Of all the men I’ve ever loved (really not many at all), only one has ever brought me flowers and that was the old standby cliché — the Apology Bouquet. Not a particularly romantic gesture by any means.

     Again, men just don’t buy me flowers (*with the exception of the occasional birthday). I don’t know why that is exactly. Any gifts I do receive, such sweet tokens of affection, are often things that represent my interests and me. I rarely receive any romantic gifts, and I sincerely believe it has to do with our contemporary culture that actually shuns the concept of romance and of courtship rituals.

     I’d like to blame second-wave feminism, but that’s (oxymoron be damned) much too easy and far too complex to consider.

     On the other hand, I’d like to blame the media-influenced frat-boy mentality when it comes to matters of women as sexual “conquests” — no doubt a pithy reactionary to feminism.  However, it would be fallacious — and quite sexist — of me to assume men cannot think for themselves, and all are so inclined to follow the “pack.” 

     I think I’d also blame the retail companies that market and package old world concepts of romance, sloppily tied in red velveteen bows and marked on clearance due to the pick-up subculture AND the ever-escalating divorce rate. 

     All in all though, I’d really like to blame our culture’s cynicism. There’s often a lot of eye-rolling when it comes to matters of the heart.

     Anyway, I’m not one to turn away romantic gestures at all. I find them charming and endearing and, thanks to our cynicism, even a little bit rebellious. If I were to find a card-less bouquet on my front doorstep, I would like to assume it’s from the man I care for. Chances are though, it isn’t. It is probably from an actual secret admirer, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious as to who would be crazy enough to do something like that…

     …for the likes of me



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