Friday, February 13, 2004
It's Friday, the 13th! I'm not suspicious, at all, so this has no bearing on me at all.
I bought my Valentine a dozen roses. They are going to be delivered to her office. I am not a flower type of guy; I tend to see them as fairly inane, but, in this case, I went with the flowers because I think my Valentine will appreciate the public display of love of and affection, not necessarily the flowers themselves. I think she will apreciate the attention from colleagues more than the sweet smell of the roses, and this publicity is hard to come by, gift-wise. Sure, I could have a pizza delivered to her office, but no one would ask, "Oh, trace, who's the pizza from?" Maybe I could have a ream of paper delivered to the office from Staples.com, but again, no one would notice or care to inquire who she got the ream of paper from. But, flowers, now everyone is curious about flowers, and flowers can be milked for maybe a week if she leaves them on her desk. That means, for the next week, every person who wanders near her desk with HAVE to ask, "who the flowers from?" Now, that is some currency that is very difficult to purchase elsewhere.
All for now.
I bought my Valentine a dozen roses. They are going to be delivered to her office. I am not a flower type of guy; I tend to see them as fairly inane, but, in this case, I went with the flowers because I think my Valentine will appreciate the public display of love of and affection, not necessarily the flowers themselves. I think she will apreciate the attention from colleagues more than the sweet smell of the roses, and this publicity is hard to come by, gift-wise. Sure, I could have a pizza delivered to her office, but no one would ask, "Oh, trace, who's the pizza from?" Maybe I could have a ream of paper delivered to the office from Staples.com, but again, no one would notice or care to inquire who she got the ream of paper from. But, flowers, now everyone is curious about flowers, and flowers can be milked for maybe a week if she leaves them on her desk. That means, for the next week, every person who wanders near her desk with HAVE to ask, "who the flowers from?" Now, that is some currency that is very difficult to purchase elsewhere.
All for now.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Valentine's Day is coming! A celebration of romance, and intimacy. I came across a quote, by Jacques Benigne Bossuel : "The heart has reasons that reason does not understand." It seems accurate and cogent. This is one reason you can't really plan a life. As an adolescent, you might imagine that by 25, you'll be married, kids on the way, crappy first house, and two cars in the garage. You might even find a partner you imagine you could spend a life with. But who can say what will happen in 10 years. You may fall out of love, because of circumstance, or for no apparent reason at all. And, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself you're still in love -- for the kids, for ease and convenience, because of finances, or because you hate statistics -- or you try to convince yourself that your love is just changing, maybe you say, "it's growing," or we've moved into a new stage, a "platonic" stage, it just doesn't work because your heart isn't in it anymore.
So, you fight the feeling, or lack thereof. You tell yourself, maybe for years, that your life is "just right." You try therapy, maybe even prozac, you buy a fast car, lots of hip-hop cd's, trying to reinvent some other aspects of your life, but, again, it just doesn't help.
At some point, you'll start looking around and noticing the girl behind the counter at the gym, and you'll wonder what it would be like to be "with" her. You wonder if she would make you feel content, happier, lustful. She has nice eyes, piercing brown eyes. She looks at you directly, not beyond you, and you feel a bit uncomfortable with this newfound feeling. You work harder at the gym; you take extra care with styling and dress. You feel noticed, and this feeling is undeniable.
Pretty soon, when you're at the mall, you watch the women walk by you and you wonder what they might be like. You wonder of their voice, if you were to hear it speaking to you, would it be tender and caring? Would she call you "honey" with baited breath?
At home, you feel invisible, oppressed. You feel insubstantial. Your heart tells you, "this ain't right." You tell your heart to shut-up. It doesn't listen.
In the end, this future you had planned, maybe fastidiously, comes crashing down.
But, hey, this isn't what Valentine's day is all about, now, is it? Nah. Valentine's day is about inception, the beginning, the point where heart and reason meet.
Happy Valentine's day.
So, you fight the feeling, or lack thereof. You tell yourself, maybe for years, that your life is "just right." You try therapy, maybe even prozac, you buy a fast car, lots of hip-hop cd's, trying to reinvent some other aspects of your life, but, again, it just doesn't help.
At some point, you'll start looking around and noticing the girl behind the counter at the gym, and you'll wonder what it would be like to be "with" her. You wonder if she would make you feel content, happier, lustful. She has nice eyes, piercing brown eyes. She looks at you directly, not beyond you, and you feel a bit uncomfortable with this newfound feeling. You work harder at the gym; you take extra care with styling and dress. You feel noticed, and this feeling is undeniable.
Pretty soon, when you're at the mall, you watch the women walk by you and you wonder what they might be like. You wonder of their voice, if you were to hear it speaking to you, would it be tender and caring? Would she call you "honey" with baited breath?
At home, you feel invisible, oppressed. You feel insubstantial. Your heart tells you, "this ain't right." You tell your heart to shut-up. It doesn't listen.
In the end, this future you had planned, maybe fastidiously, comes crashing down.
But, hey, this isn't what Valentine's day is all about, now, is it? Nah. Valentine's day is about inception, the beginning, the point where heart and reason meet.
Happy Valentine's day.
