So, this happened: I got off work very late the other night. The city was relatively quiet. And there was a flower stuck in the door handle of my car.
I stopped. I looked around. No one was in sight.
I tried to let my better angel speak to me. I really did. I really, really did.
Maybe it was from my boyfriend. Awwww, how sweet! I do love flowers. But it was a single red carnation that was mostly wilted. That doesn’t sound like his style. (And sure enough, the next morning when I talked to him, he confirmed that it wasn’t from him.)
Or maybe it was from someone who likes bridgetenders. Or drawbridges. Or just some random person attempting to brighten someone’s day. Or maybe he or she saw the bumper sticker for this blog on my car, and is a fan. Well, that’s nice.
But the devil on my other shoulder insisted on weighing in, too. “Stalker,” she whispered. Or some crazy person obsessed with me. Someone trying to freak me out by invading my space. “See how close I can get to your car? And you’re alone at night…”
And why the anonymity, huh? What have you got to hide, bearer of wilted flowers? Who are you?
For future reference, that secret admirer thing? That becomes creepy after about the second grade. Reveal yourself relatively quickly (like, within an hour), or don’t do something like that. A simple note, stating your intentions such as, “I had this flower and felt like making someone smile.” That would suffice. Otherwise, even if you mean well, it becomes a power play and a mind f***. It’s not kind. At best, it’s disturbing. At worst, it’s aggressive.
Just sayin’.
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