There is nowhere as dangerous as a flower shop on Feb. 14. It is the last bastion of hope for the doomed and the desperate — the final stop before husbands and boyfriends hurl themselves into the judgmental abyss of a year’s worth of expectations.
As a washed-up floral assistant, I know the ritual and I know it well. I’ve seen the carnage firsthand and miraculously lived to tell the tale. Here are a few things I’ve learned from behind the register:
The early bird gets the worm
9 a.m. — They’re off to the races! The true romantics, the ones who’ve had their orders placed for weeks, waltz in with the confidence of men who have nothing to fear. These smug bastards sign their receipts with a flourish and waltz out, confident that tonight will be a triumph of wine, candlelight and sweet nothings.
5 p.m. — The second wave arrives, convinced they can play off last-minute efforts as a grand gesture. They move with false confidence, trying to look as though they know what they’re doing. It’s the hesitation in their eyes that betrays them, the not-so-casual glances at the clock, the way they hover uncertainly over piles of cards, teddy bears and arrangements.
7 p.m. — A black cloud of gloom descends over the shop. The less said about this crowd, the better. They wander through the aisles aimlessly, clutching credit cards like rosary beads, praying for salvation. Everything within reach is fair game — something, anything to take the pressure off.
What do women want, anyway?
The scene plays out in a familiar routine: men who couldn’t tell a dandelion from a daisy stand slack-jawed in front of the refrigerator, eyes darting between seemingly endless options. Eventually their panicky gaze lands on me.
“What kind of flowers does she like?” I ask. The question is invariably met with a look of dismay, as if they expected me to have the answer.
“Uh… red?” They finally manage, settling on the safest, most obvious option. It’s a classic move, a Hail Mary in the fourth quarter. They don’t know what she really likes, what would make her smile — hell, they probably couldn’t even tell you her favorite color.
The bigger the bouquet, the bigger the mistake
Ah, yes! Because nothing says “I’m sorry” like $200 worth of roses wrapped in enough cellophane to fill a landfill. Forgot an anniversary? Got caught swiping through dating apps? Whatever the offense, the connection is unmistakable.
Guys who buy small bouquets are in love. Guys who buy the whole garden are in trouble. They’re all the same: sweating bullets, asking me to “make it look really good,” as if the overpriced floral monstrosity is their ticket off the living room couch.
Then again, maybe I’m being cynical. Maybe all these hopeless customers really are trying their best, in the only way they know how. Maybe it’s not about finding the perfect combination of flowers or getting everything exactly right. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the thought that counts — or maybe I’ve just inhaled too much pollen.