The flower department in my local grocery store is basic, both in the “average white girl” sense of the word and in its offerings. In fact, it’s so unremarkable that 364 days out of the year I ignore it completely on my way to the produce section. On that other day, I venture into a maze of gaudy mylar balloons, houseplants stuffed into kitschy seasonally appropriate pots, and racks of sappy greeting cards. It is a silly place, but I love being there in the lead-up to Valentine’s Day. Inside that cramped space, I can author a story of love for my wife in Gerber daisies and baby’s breath.
True, the internet is stuffed with flower delivery services. With a few taps and clicks, I can choose a bouquet — probably a nicer one than I can get at the grocery — and send it like a cupid’s arrow to my beloved’s office desk. Her female coworkers will make soft, wistful, “awwwww” sounds. Her male coworkers will make jokes. And she will blush and smile and send me a grateful, loving, text. But there’s something missing in all of that convenience — me.
If it’s truly the thought that counts, delivery flowers don’t count for much. You literally need to know nothing about the person you’re buying…
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