Saturday, October 10, 2009
No, These Are Just Leftover Flowers From Work
Recently, I worked a commercial that had a high profile talent and was sent to pick up flowers and magazines for the trailer of a man that could buy my soul three times over after taxes. Spending the rest of the day watching the trailer so that no one would thieve in it, I felt the familiar burn of bitterness and hostility creep into my chest.
The day ended and the only thing left where the trailer had been parked was the bouquet of autumn flowers that I had arranged in a water filled pretzel barrel (Crafty was supposed to supply the vase and used this barrel instead. They make at least $150 more than me PER DAY and this is what they came up with). Being that my efforts were left for trash, I picked up the neglected flowers and put them in my front seat. As I left the lot for the evening, the security guard stopped to get my pass and hit on me in an incredibly unprofessional way.
"Those from your boyfriend?" he asked.
"No," I admitted.
"This your last day on this lot?"
"Yeah, so you take care now."
"Well, maybe we could keep in touch."
"Yeah, totally, I'll come back and visit you," I laughed, driving away while he yelled after me for my number. But it brought up an old and weathered thought - why is it that I attract guys like him? The creepy, weird ones? The night shift security guards, the physical trainers, the bouncers, the mentally unstable, the elderly?
This question has plagued me for years, since I was a teen. My mother tried to reassure me that when I was older, men would appreciate who I was and what I looked like. She failed to mention which men, though, probably out of kindness. Time reveals all truths, however, including the bangs she cut me in seventh grade that were an atrocity of an epic proportion.
I parked and got out to walk to my apartment. Passersby looked at me with questioning eyes and I could guess what they were thinking. Some nice man, an investment banker or a lawyer perhaps, bought me beautiful flowers. Was it my birthday? Anniversary? And what's up with the vase?
Rounding the corner, another creepster waited in the dark with his creepy questions.
"You gotta boyfriend?" he slurred.
"No, these are just left over flowers from work," I barked. Why didn't I ever just lie to these people? I rushed past him, not eager to continue a conversation with a guy I'm pretty sure I've seen before on America's Most Wanted. Coming into my empty apartment, I set the flowers in my kitchen and fluffed them a bit. Even guys that I've "dated" never bought me flowers and I could only guess as to why, none of the reasons very flattering on either party.
My friends say that if I don't want to be alone forever, I might have to start lowering my standards like every other woman on the planet. Maybe one day, I would have to say yes to the freaky dude at the club with the long hair or the Mexican guy whose been screaming sexual things in Spanish every morning on my way to work. I must trade happiness for companionship and abandon parts of myself for the sake of this. Because the women who get the guys that I want are amazing - they're beautiful, petite, smart, and socially tactful.
I know what I am. I'm a loud mouth, a little dumb, lumpy and some have called me "man-ish". What I am not is someone who settles, unlike 90% of the population. So perhaps my flowers will always be left overs. But at least at night, I can eat Cheetos dipped in ice cream, read my paranormal books and write my weird stories. Girls who get first hand flowers might have men but they don't always have freedom. So suck on that bitches.