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Roses are red, violets are blue, Rowena Grant-Frost doesn't do romance, how about you?'
By Rowena Grant-Frost
In February i realised this maybe wasn't the case. This became clear on the 14th, when i opened my door and found two white rectangular boxes sitting outside. They looked like small cardboard coffins and i wondered if someone was trying to send me a coded threat, or perhaps smuggle some submachine guns via my front porch.
A peek inside revealed otherwise: the contents were incomprehensibly terrifying, yes, but there were no Uzis or fished or any other Godfather-related symbols of death. They were full of roses. Two dozen red roses, the Valentine's kind. I recoiled in horror. Who would do such a thing? What terrible thing had i done to make someone mistake me for Julia Roberts? The second box contained my answer in the form of an earnest poem: "For now, forever, forget-me-not. I will always love you." Oh my gosh, i remember thinking, i'm being stalked by Whitney Houston.
Maybe i should have been won over by such a grand declaration of love everlasting. But sweeping romantic gestures - the kind that involve skywriting on your birthday; moonlight picnics where you're given the coordinates to a star that's been named after you; or hot-air balloon rides to watch the sunrise - always make me uncomfortable. I'm just not that kind of girl. I don't know what to say or do. "Oooh," i'll intone, stretching out that vowel sound until i can think of a suitable reply. "Did you know that avocadoes are actually giant berries?"
I understand that the thoughts behind these gestures are well intentioned - and, really, it's impossible to be anything but grateful for good intentions - but it also feels like they come from a big book called 'Romance: A Generic Guide To'. There is a chapter on how to make your expressions more intense and smouldery, particularly when you're reciting poems about your partner's eyes or forehead or whatever; a chapter on why meteorological phenomena equal romantic pay dirt; and an entire section on why giving cuddly toys to adults isn't weird or creepy, but perfectly normal. But it's also a one-size-fits-all behemoth and that's kind of the problem.
Sweeping romantic gestures, in theory, are great and fine and wonderful, it's true. Some people explode in a frenzy of delight at the sight of scented candles and rose pedals and bubble baths, but there are other people (hello) who find these sorts of things a little bit strange and impersonal. The idea of romance shouldn't eclipse the individuals involved: some people (hello) aren't going to morph into an idealised version of themselves because they've reluctantly agreed to go on one of those stupid ye olde horse-and-carriage rides.
Ideas aren't bigger than people, especially when those people are a little bit socially awkward (hi).
I do not think i am especially complicated. I like movies, books, origami and butter. Present me with a pie and i'll be your friend for life. Maybe even with benefits. But present me with something that says, "i don't really know you, but this is what usually works," and i'll just feel uneasy. And this is exactly what those two boxes of flowers said to me. "Hello lady human," they whispered. "We are a projection of idealised romantic love and because you are a lady human you will like us. This is what you are supposed to do."
After expressing my platonic gratitude for the flowers, i couldn't decide what to do with them, so i left them in their boxes until they turned black and died. This took several weeks, so by the time i tipped their shrivelled corpses into my wheelie bin it was March.
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