Facing my fear.

I share a fear with the man in front of me. So we cast around for opinions to protect ourselves.

We’re standing in the florist, it’s Valentine’s Day, and we are both afraid of being the clueless guy whose gesture of love is entirely determined by someone else. Neither of us wants to walk up and say “make something to tell her I care.”

Last time I bought flowers here I confidently asserted “no roses.” That’s good, right? Roses are too…easy. Right? Help? Because when I say “confidently” I mean “monitoring the flower guy to see if he scoffs or nods” especially because this particular flower-guy is the perfect degree of metrosexual to reassure me of his expertise and nonjudmentalism.

But then I began to suspect that roses were in fact appropriate for V-Day.

The guy in front of me “confidently” fills in his card. That is, he writes with a shaky and unsure hand, frequent pauses, peeking at me over his shoulder to make sure I’m not reading his attempt at an original message.

It’s hard being a man.

I ended up with the roses, red, balanced with some orchid-looking guys with tiger spots inside, fleshed out with some wide green leaves. Good. (Good?) Then the exuberantly awkward and entertaining walk across town with a big bouquet of flowers in hand. Although less noteworthy on Valentine’s Day, it still occasioned a couple sly and knowing smiles from grandfathers.

It’s easy being a man.