One lengthy and entirely satisfactory reason why my boyfriend is the most wonderful man on earth

(If you are one of my faithful Weeds readers who has known about this delightfully sneaky scheme of Daniel's for awhile, this is how it all went down. If you aren't, and this is new to you, hold on to your hat, for you are about to be dazzled.)


Valentine's Day morning is a bittersweet thing for one who is deeply in love, but very, very far from one's beloved. Fortunately for me, Daniel, sweetheart that he is, had planned ahead and sent me, along with some mix CDs, a little sealed envelope not to be opened before said morning. I don't think I can overstate my hopes for what that package might contain. It is fairly easy to grasp, then, how puzzled I was when I did open it. It contained a single strip of paper, on which was written "THERE IS NO PERFECT NAME FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE." And while I do agree with the statement, and consider it a fine one, it just simply wasn't what I had hoped for as a Valentine's offering. Plus, it made me feel kinda dumb. "I don't get it" I said out loud. This was obviously referring to something else, something bigger--it had to--but I had not the first clue as to what that might be. I tried very hard not to be disappointed--obviously, whatever this was supposed to be, Daniel had put thought into it--but I was. I proceeded to have a horrible morning from there on, one of those when you can't manage to dress yourself or do your hair, and I played some of the most depressing Pedro the Lion songs and wept for this long-distance love thing fucking sucks.

But I had plans for the day, and so tried to keep my trembling chin up to go about them. At eleven I was having coffee with my friend Matthew Wolferstan. He had insisted on inviting me out for Valentine's morning, and I didn't think a thing about it. We're good friends, and also my other friend Matthew (from here on he will be referred to as St Matthew) had already invited me for dinner that night, on the logic that he didn't have anyone to take out, and that Daniel wasn't here to take me out, and that someone should, so he would. There's been enough joking around about the whole dating-by-proxy thing, and these invites just fell in line with that, so I didn't question them. So at eleven, I went to meet Matt W. At a nearby bakery. When he greeted me at the door with a single red rose, I burst out laughing. See, the previous night at the pub, we'd had a discussion regarding which flowers are okay to give to girls. No carnations, ever, I said. Someone asked whether single red roses were okay. Sure I said, so long as there is no baby's breath or ferns attached and that you don't present the flower to her holding it in your teeth. So, when I saw the rose, I first thought it was a joke. But then I saw there was a strip of paper attached to it, with a line of poetry? song lyric? attached to it. What is this? I asked Matt W. It's part of the puzzle, was his answer. Well, again, I was puzzled.

I didn't clue in until St Matthew waltzed in, handed me a single red rose, wished me Happy Valentine's Day, and then stormed out. I saw that this was Daniel's doing, and indeed it was marvelous to my eyes. I knew that both of them had been plotting this, and gotten Matt W. on board. But the sheer magnitude of the thing hadn't hit me yet. That didn't happen until my friend Janet walked in with--you've guessed it--a single red rose. I started to cry. Please understand: I'm a pretty confident person (I am, after all an only child--that is, the center of the universe), I know I'm fairly cute and pretty smart, but still I find this whole business of being loved utterly baffling. Now, to be loved in a such a way that justifies such extravagance, forethought, logistics and just sheer excess of romanticism is not only something that has never happened to me, ever, before, but something I hadn't imagined ever would. I was--I am--deeply confounded, profoundly humbled, and absolutely ecstatic.

Tears soon gave way to laughter as I saw my friend Allison come in. This is how it went all day: in total twelve people, friends whom I love, took time out of their day & went out of their way to bring me a total of fourteen roses, each one with a line from a poem attached--a sonnet of roses. At work, at the library that afternoon, two young families came to do the deed. (Nice touch, the use of children. Gideone Kremler, three, thrusting the rose out proudly: "Appy Malemtine Zday Fanny dissis wrom Daniel!") As Matthew said to me that night, with this stunt Daniel won himself the heart of my friends, colleagues, and family. (My own heart, of course, had been won & given long, long before this.) When I told my mom the story she was, obviously, deeply touched, and very impressed, and told me to tell Daniel that he was from now on free to screw up however much he wished for he has, as far as she is concerned, bought himself a lifetime of grace.

The roses were beautiful. The poem is amazing. Love makes you do things you never thought you would do: the other day I could be found drying frikkin' rose petals in the frikkin' microwave, arguably the most craft-y thing I've done since grade school, so that I could keep them.

It was without contest the best Valentine's day ever, and if I've had a better day--any old sort of day--I don't remember. It would be very easy for me to go on gushing, but moderation remains a virtue. All I have left to say is this: my darling Daniel, I love you. Thank you. You've set the bar now, and I accept the challenge. To all you men out there, take a lesson from my beloved--this is how to do it. And to you ladies--it does happen.


Here is the poem:


THERE’S NO PERFECT NAME FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE

I can’t believe my own voice when I call
you baby. Have I told you this? Better
with babe—more laconic, suits whatever drawl
I take from Texas—but there’s not a letter

or a call I don’t hesitate to name
you anything. Words fall short or stumble
past you, like book reports eighth graders aim
at Dostoyevsky, miss. Phonemes fumble,

fail to summarize, to label. There’s no word
I’d trust you to, unless there’s one for laughter
in some obscure tongue that means absurd,
delighted, two-thousand-mile-long laughter,

or that means silence, that’s said by saying
nothing, love—it’s just my way of naming.