A cool autumn evening, many years ago...
Sitting in my parents' cramped, fluorescent basement, I'm turning the small, foreign trinket over and over, inspecting it incredulously.
Every time I shake the strange plastic container, some of its hot pink sand sinks through a series of ominous-patterned holes-spelling out \I love you"" on one side and forming a heart shape on the other.
I stare into my puppy lover's hopeful green eyes, and all I can think is, ""Oh, puke!""
""What did you say?"" his face drops.
Oh panic. That was out loud.
""Oh, cute! I exclaim and breathe a deep sigh for saving myself.
Even as an insecure, confused suburban high schooler, many classified me as a bit cynical. OK... a cold-hearted, sarcastic fun-sucker-outer at best.
But recently, I've started to realize those who've labeled me a cynic simply don't understand. With the confidence of learning there exists an army of college girls much like me, I can now assuredly explain that we're not opposed to caring-we just want our significant others to manifest their feelings in a different way.
Yes, the thought of a dozen roses makes me cringe. But that doesn't mean a dozen new drumsticks for my dilapidated set of skins wouldn't make my eyes water in delight! A costly tennis bracelet? No thanks, buddy. A game of tennis on a Sunday afternoon? Baby, I'm all yours.
For my breed of women, showing you care isn't about goo-filled chocolate, creepy cylinders full of sand, or perky flowers that make us wonder if the relationship will wilt before they do. For the multitudes of us so-called cynics, showing you care just isn't gendered like that.
Instead, caring is about appreciating the quirky facets of the individual we're feelin' on. For us, roses aren't just prickly inconveniences with pricetags that climb faster than our national debt. They can also serve as ambiguous symbols of what others can't or don't want to express in a personalized messages. Honestly, I'd prefer my dude present me with an oversized Hanes that reads ""My boyfriend doesn't know me at all, so all he got me was this lousy T-shirt"" if he's going to pop for a generic, get-out-of-affection-free token.
But when one finally takes the time to personalize a gesture of caring, the entire ordeal becomes an intimate revelation of warm, fuzzy goodness. (Yes-warm and fuzzy.)
So in the end, I think we must look to the beginning-or at least the 16th century. Best boyfriend of all time: Romeo. Refusing to waste family funds on stuffed teddy bears and candy, the dude romantically bestowed upon his fair Juliet something she could really use.
OK, so it did kill her. But every time my pathetic, pink sandy knick-knack professes its eternal love for me, I'm reassured that saving a little poison for that special sweetie was certainly a step in the right direction.
Emily Winter is a junior majoring in sociology and journalism. Her column runs every Tuesday in The Daily Cardinal. She can be reached at ewinter@wisc.edu.
