In order to serve you, my readers, more efficiently, I have written two versions of today's post. The first is the real story, full of all the details. The second is the abridged version for those who don't have three minutes to spend reading about the first bouquet of roses I've ever received.
Last weekend, I and several of my friends from college got together at the beach. One of the guys has a beach house [side note: It has a 65" flatscreen TV. I want one. I saw Michael Phelps larger than life. This is a good thing.], so we got together and reminisced about the days of yore. We talked about our favorite college memory and about the time Dan's knee popped out of joint or when we had a VIP room at the Super Bowl party. Then we waxed less than poeticly about what we're doing now. Although we've all seen each other several times since we graduated, so we weren't all that clueless about our lives.
On Saturday I was tragically out of Diet Dr. Pepper and knew that I'd need the sweet nectar that the doctor has so graciously bestowed upon the world. So I went to the grocery store to stock up on a supply for the weekend (with a couple other things to munch on while basking in the cloudiness of the day).
I paid for my haul and grabbed my bags. As the bagger was handing me my bags he also reached for a bouquet of roses that I hadn't noticed was lying on the counter. And he handed them to me. "What are these for?" I asked. "They're for you," he said. "Oh!" was the only response I came up with.
So I took home my roses and put them in a red Solo cup.
They were getting rid of the old roses at the Food Lion and the 80-year-old bagger gave them to me.
Using the intuition that our senior friends often have (part of the wisdom they glean during their years), I believe he saw in my face how much I love flowers. The end.