A Grocery Store Rose by any other Name
Smells just as sweet, just without the frills and filler.
During the wedding planning experience, I very quickly realized that doing things the DIY way is a very easy and reliable route to spending twice as much as you were planning. First, you buy all these nice but not quite materials, you spend hours learning techniques and applying hot-fix rhinestones, and at the end of the experiment, you have a puddle of unusable, singed tulle and a lot of anxiety.
Not everyone is Martha Stewart, and experience is worth big dollars.
I learned this lesson multiple times — failed attempts include my garter, my veil, my sola wood flower decor, my aisle runner, my cake, my hair. After the first few losses I became much more adept at recognizing my limitations and reaching out for help. I found an incredible bakery for the cake, a fantastic local hair stylist, and Etsy furnished the accessories.
I allowed myself one DIY project to absorb all of my time and effort, and the winner was: FLORALS. After getting a few quotes, I very quickly learned that my pastel dreams were going to be dashed against the boulders of money and … more money. Seriously. My first quote for a professional altar piece and a bouquet was over $1000. If I wanted to have clouds of flowers adorning every foreseeable surface, I was going to have to either go silk, or go wholesale.
My fiancé was firmly against the plastic route. The selection was vast, but the more lifelike flowers were almost as expensive as live ones. I would still have to learn all of the arranging techniques needed for live flowers. After the wedding, we would suddenly have to store all of these faux blooms somewhere, and that somewhere was most likely a thrift store or a dumpster. I did scour craft stores for silk flowers in the colors I wanted, but ended up mostly disappointed. Have you seen the plastic approximation of baby’s breath? It’s a Dollar Tree nightmare.
Sola wood flowers were also not a dream come true. Perhaps if I had purchased them pre arranged and dyed, I would feel differently. But after trying to color them myself and devoting an entire day to softening and painting them, I knew it wasn’t going to pan out. I just didn’t have the resources to fling at that project.
We agreed on wholesale flowers, and I started some research. The Kroger near my home always seemed to have a vibrant rotation of blooms on display, and I spent many afternoons grabbing some discount bouquets to practice with. I learned that accent flowers and greenery make a huge difference in the presentation of live flowers. Goodwill provided scads of vases, and I’ve really enjoyed putting together arrangements for my house. Breakfast feels more refined with a crystal pitcher of roses on the table. Now, if I actually survive my live flower ordeal, trust me, you’ll be reading about it. If not, check the obits for “Anxiety Ridden Bride Done In by Thorn Stripper”.
All of the effort that I put into my flowers brought memories to my mind, recent and long past. There’s a mid-2010s pop song cover about a lonesome mistress who waits for her man to come to visit; her house is not full of babies and clutter but luxury toiletries and fresh cut flowers. When I went through my first big break up, that was the lifestyle I imagined for myself; a refined, independent woman who loved on her own terms and afforded her own luxuries.
I had spent years in a relationship with someone who used flowers as a last resort when he knew he had well and truly messed up. Along with all the other lies that media fed to millennials, I had grown up thinking that flowers were just the perfect gift for every occasion, and if your man didn’t remember to get them for your birthday or anniversary? He slept on the couch. What was I to do with this man who had decided that too many bouquets would “spoil” me, or make them lose their significance?
My ideas of love started to be questioned. If he doesn’t buy you flowers, does he think about you? If he doesn’t plan dates, does he actually care? If he doesn’t chase you down, or promise to move the stars, is he really the one? My sugar coated, Disney induced fantasies about love crumbled like meringue. Flowers were not the reason for our breakup, but I remember the last bouquet he purchased for me, and it’s like biting into pepper that got lost in your teeth; bitter, unexpected, lurking in the crevices of memory.
I spent the next two years buying my own flowers whenever I wanted. My tiny room in my parents’ home enveloped the clutter of my downsizing; my cave of familiarity. The small room was painted a dark pink of my choosing, and with the dim lighting and cramped furniture, it swallowed me whole in the mornings after my new night shift position. It was comfortable cocoon within which I could heal from changes I had endured.
The typical flowers I chose were roses. The phenomenon of “disposable income” was one I hadn’t experienced before, and it showed. All sorts of little luxuries creeped into my life, collecting in bins under my bed and decorating the top of my dresser. High end cosmetics, glitter encrusted trinkets, boutique bubble bath, and of course, fresh cut flowers made up my dragon’s hoard. At times I’d buy enough to make several small arrangements, enough for the kitchen table, my bedroom, and my parents’ room. During my years back home I dated many men, and I expected nothing of them, not love, and especially not flowers.
Life eventually led me to my fiancé, and since we had actually committed to exclusively dating, I passed him the ball. I wanted flowers for my birthday. Would he forget? Would he decline? We were long distance at the time. Would he forgo the expense of delivered flowers until he could see me in person with a more economical bunch?
That night at the hospital, a delivery came for me. A slender box full of irises and lilies waited for me to freshen up their water. Beautiful, vibrant, and long lasting, they were absolutely darling. I enjoyed the flowers for a few weeks, and they considerably brightened up my room.
And much beyond that first birthday, Ethan continues to buy me flowers. Our anniversary, my birthday, a promotion, a bad day, or just because they were nice and on sale, flowers almost always adorn our dining room table. I still feel quite comfortable buying my own flowers too, especially now that I have been practicing for the upcoming wedding.
I have heard other women say that their partners don’t want to buy them flowers. It’s a waste of money, they just die, it’s too cliché. I can’t think of any other gift that is so specifically desired and requested, and yet so regularly denied. Is there any other occasion where it’s acceptable to so obstinately reject giving the gift someone asks for by name? I’ve never questioned whether or not my fiance needs more shoes, or more video games; he asks, and I buy. Good gift giving is about giving what the other person wants, not what the buyer wants them to have. Whether it’s a matter of maturity or personality, I’ve yet to understand.
My parents have been married for over 30 years. They haven’t always had money, or time, or energy. Gift giving has evolved over the decades in the Jordan family, but year after year, my mom gets plump, sumptuous roses from a local florist from my dad. Massive crimson blooms, always perfectly framed against a cloud of delicate baby’s breath and leatherleaf fern. My dad also spoiled his mom with gorgeous displays, and maybe that’s where my appreciation for fantastic florals stems from.
This year for Valentine’s, Ethan stopped by my job and dropped off a gift. Despite working on house renovations in the morning and working a full shift at his own job, he took the time to collect and clean the large vase we keep under the sink, a remnant from an old friendship. He stopped by the store, and grabbed a dozen red roses for love, and a dozen pink roses for me. Ethan left them with the office staff, along with chocolates. There wasn’t a lot of fanfare, since I was in a case and couldn’t leave. Two dozen roses in a vase from home, no greenery or ribbon, but perfectly and thoughtfully chosen. He fulfilled my request with no excuses, and no complaints. It’s not about the price, it’s about the effort.
Those petals were collected and dried, and now get to be a part of our wedding decor. The stems became part of our compost, which will nourish our garden. Our lawn looks as stressed as I feel, but almost half of our bulbs produced dainty tulips and heavy hyacinths. And even now, $5 barely pink roses grace my countertop. Flowers are the language of love, and unlike French, it doesn’t have to be complicated. You shouldn’t have to explain why you accept affection the way you do; you don’t owe anyone a user guide just so they can toss it aside and call you “high maintenance”. You shouldn’t have to beg for flowers, and you shouldn’t have to ask to be loved. And if anyone makes you feel that way, be sure in the fact that you can, quite capably, buy your own damn flowers.
