Yesterday, a delivery man came to my door bearing a large, flat box.  He knocked, and when I saw my name on the card on the box, my eyes must have widened because he started smiling.  Yes, the box was for me, and it contained a dozen red roses.  And get this. This is the first time in my forty-something years (geez, I’ve gone all shy with Andreas’s remark about “the math”) that I’ve ever received a dozen red roses.  I’ve received a single rose in a box (really, I should have got rid of him right then and there, what?)  But never have I received a dozen.  

It was worth the wait, because they are such perfect beauties, the very crème de la crème of roses.  They were lying side by side in the bottom of the box, swaddled in chartreuse tissue paper, each of them with the straightest stem and the most perfect form and fragrance.  And with a dear little water ”foot” attached to each precious inhabitant.

Straightaway I was transported to the golden years of Hollywood and — but for the want of Givenchy couture — could have thought myself Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly flinging around opened boxes wherever they may fall.  And dashing off, while I drew on my gloves, to the aid of one of my many hare-brained, but oh-so-charming, suitors.

All of which is a bit of a surprise to me.  To discover that I’m just as much of a sucker for roses as any other woman alive.  I mean, can there be a gene for red roses coded on the xx chromosome somewhere?

You know the really funny thing?  After waiting all these years, the roses were finally sent not by a man, but by one of my dearest female friends.  To thank me for something. And they were just as much of a thrill.

*****

Image: Corbis