I really like roses. I even like them for Valentine’s, which, I know, is sooo pedestrian of me. So… unoriginal.
My boyfriend got me the requisite bunch of roses for Valentine’s day this year. I think that it’s the first time that I’ve ever actually had roses for Valentine’s day from a significant other, just for me, at 39 years of age.
My last partner hated roses. Hated them. Actually, I take that back. Her word was “loathed”. And when we’d pass a bunch of roses growing in a garden, she’d take that as an opportunity to tell me exactly how much she absolutely loathed them.
Why? Because of the mean Rose in The Little Prince.
Fine. It’s fine to dislike roses. It’s fine to like other flowers better because they’re less popular on Valentine’s day.
But my enjoyment of roses was not really allowed to coexist next to her loathing of them.
My boyfriend didn’t have time to get me any until the last minute, and then he came up with an elaborate “plan” with my son to sneak out of the house to get me roses and a treat that was not chocolate because I’m allergic to dairy.
He gave me red roses and figs, and my son was delighted to get to be sneaky and go with him to the store to get me those for our first Valentine’s day.
I’m reminded of this because now the roses in our yard are starting to bloom. I picked a yellow one this morning to put in a vase on the table.
He did the “boring”, “normal”, “pedestrian” thing that guys are supposed to do for Valentine’s day, and I loved it.
And it was beautiful. The roses were beautiful. Yes, they’re overplayed, they decorate everything in February, those old red roses.
But they’re still beautiful. And simple. And kind.
Simple and kind – that’s the beauty of love, isn’t it?