Even I can’t let the day o’ love go by without putting my 7cents into it. Before get started, I have to provide some backstory in order for you to understand this tale in its entirety.
So, I went to a Catholic, all girls high school in New Jersey called Mount Saint Mary’s Academy. No, it wasn’t some kind of punishment for acting up in junior high. I actually asked my parents if I could go there. I was done with the public school scene and the “mean girls” that existed before Mean Girls made it to the big scene. The Mount meant uniforms, nuns, and just XX’s in the genetic code. It really wasn’t a big deal and I consider myself a better person for having had the experience.
How does Valentine’s Day fit in to all of this? Well, girls being girls, we all like to brag, especially when it comes to boyfriends. Every year if Valentine’s Day fell during the school week, the main office was teeming with FTD delivery people bearing large bouquets of flowers, boxes of assorted chocolates, stuffed teddy bears and the assorted frivolity that goes with the day. During any given class block, various names would be announced over the loud speaker, summoning girls to the main office. We all knew why and it was inevitable that if a girl whose name was called wasn’t in your class at that time, you probably saw her walking down the hall, her arms laden with babies breath, roses, and balloons. If you didn’t happen to see her, you could guarantee that one of your friends had and would be more than happy to fill you on who got what from whom.
Freshman year, I watched several of my friends skip to and from the office on the 14th of February. I don’t think I had a boyfriend — I must not have if I can’t even recall — or if I didn’t, he wasn’t forward thinking enough to send flowers to my school.
Every year, the number of my friends who received things grew. I wasn’t hosting any pity parties for myself, don’t get me wrong. Congrats to the friends that raked it in; besides, they were always willing to share the chocolate. I had guys that I liked and a few that I would consider a boyfriend, but none that ever seemed to be on the roster around Valentine’s Day. Then, something changed the Valentine’s Day of my senior year.
The summer before my juinor year was my transition year. The braces were off, I was wearing contact lenses full time, my hair had started to cooperate with the chemical relaxer and I was no longer afraid of burning myself with the curling iron. I was running with a pretty cool crowd, I was getting good grades and soon enough, I was going to get my license. Fast forward to senior year, and more of the same, albeit, even more so. Things were going well. There were several boys that I had dated, and there were one or two that I had crushes on, but as in the past, there was no one that I was counting on to remember me for Valentine’s Day.
So (and I have to take a little creative liberty here because while I remember what happens next, the minute details escape me), I’m in the senior lounge, probably doing vocab flashcards with some friends or I’m in the Lion’s Den (SGA office on campus) doing Student Government stuff as the Executive Board VEEP, when lo, my name is called over the loudspeaker.
Now, I’ve never been a troublemaker. Goody-goody is a name that comes to mind, but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t worried about going to the office when my name was called. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was positive that it didn’t have anything to do with demerits or detention.
I get to the office and the receptionist, Sister Mary Answer the Telephone points to a large box of a dozen long stemmed roses and says, “That’s for you, dear.”
Here’s what I thought in the 3 nanoseconds it took for me to say, “Thanks” –Flowers on the desk-nice flowers-there’s a card with my name on it-WTH-is this some kind of joke-I bet it’s from Mom and Dad since they were tired of hearing me complain that everybody else got flowers but me.
I scooped up the flowers and ran (more like shot down the hall) to the senior lounge and flung the door open before coolly gliding in with my flowers. Appearances are everything, don’t you know.
And as I basked in the adulation and questioning of my peers, my hand travelled to the card that was with the flowers. Nope, I hadn’t yet opened it. I was savoring this. The card, which I still have to this day, said,
Can I get a “WTH?” Thank you. When you go to an all girls school such as mine and there are alternating study hall periods, that is just a nerve center of all things female. Every girl who had a free period studied that card, doing handwriting analysis, smelling it to ascertain what kind of cologne could be clinging to the cardstock and envelope. There were several that went so far as asking me or people who knew me about the guys that I had crushes on or who could possibly (like it’s so hard to imagine) have a crush on me. Could it be Danny G. from Plainfield High? Could it be Kiadii H. from the Tatnall School? What about his best friend and Christian Bale look-alike Julian T. ? Hey a girl can dream, right? What about Chris M., Kevin V. or dare we think it, uber crush extraordinaire, Brian O. (drool, drool)?
There were some naysayers and detractors who offered the following: My parents, my brother, my grandparents, myself. C’mon now people. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?
Anyway, to this day, 14 years later (yikes!) I still don’t know sent me that note and those gorgeous flowers. I grilled my parents (no), my brother (yeah, right), and casually asked among the guys that I talked to, but nothing came of it.
Funny enough, at my 10 year high school reunion, a bunch of us sat around a bar, drinking and reminincing and that February 14th came up. The question was asked, “Did you ever find out who sent you those flowers?”
Nope, but when I run across the card, I’ll pick a name at random and content myself with imagining that person as the sender of the flowers and the extremely fortunate recipient of my girlhood crush.