Heaven forbid I waited more than 6.2 seconds before diving, mouth-first, into the Valentine's Day delivery I received. Adorned with red ribbon and anchored by a sole, heart-shaped balloon, it was a basket replete with both tropical and Wisconsin delights; cheese, crackers, sausage, mangos, apples and other fiberlicious, bowel-inducing assortments. Yes, my parents sent it.
I will confess, however, that prior to reading the card inside, I was merely thrilled at the prospect that someone with no familial obligations to love me was possibly thinking of me! Did someone browse the basket company's web site, see ""succulent grapefruits"" and ""big sausages"" and think, ""Wow! That's just the thing for Bonnie!"" Oh, the possibilities!
Instantly, my mind jumped to all my various prospects. I formulated a list, like an Excel spreadsheet, of all my prime interactions with the opposite sex within the past two months that could have possibly prompted this deliciously considerate gift. In the words of the ""The Sound of Music,"" ""Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.""
Prospect #1: Late-night Pizza Delivery Man, 3:15 a.m., Dec. 18, 2009:
Dressed in black pants, black shirt and a blue, company-emblazoned hat, the Delivery Man arrived at my door. With a smile, he handed over my medium pie of tomato sauce and coagulated cheese, as well as the bill.
""Thank you,"" I said, eyes widening and mouth salivating. ""You don't how much this means to me.""
""That'll be $12.41.""
""Really. I've been waiting for this all night. This is the happiest I've been. And it's all thanks to your arrival.""
""Cash or credit?""
I handed over my card and we exchanged signatures—and glances.
""Farewell, Delivery Man. May we meet again—another late night.""
The door shut, both literally and figuratively, on Delivery Man as he hopped in his Mazda and drove off into the night, bearing carb-ridden gifts for other inebriated college students. I haven't seen him since. His basket-bearing chances? A bleak 2 percent.
Prospect #2: Tourist on Brooklyn Bridge, 2:30 p.m., Jan. 7, 2010.
His name was Longwei, and he arrived direct from China to New York the day before. A native New Yorker and home for winter break, I decided to take a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. Around his neck was a camera the size of four veggie dumplings, and upon introducing himself, Longwei announced that his name means ""dragon greatness"" in Chinese. Great! He asked how to get to ""the woman with the torch,"" and I gave him subway directions.
Then, he touched my shoulder.
""What?"" I asked, puzzled by his slackening jaw and wide-eyed gaze.
""Did you feel that?""
Pause. ""Yes. You touched my shoulder.""
""No,"" he whispered, and inched closer to my face. ""Did you feel... the electric?""
Well.
Suddenly, my innocent ""walk across the bridge"" had turned into a ""walk right into a full-blown, foreign, delusional, romantic exchange."" With a smile, I guided him to the nearest subway and waved goodbye. ""That woman with the torch—what a catch!""
Chances of basket-wielding? 15 percent.
Prospect #3: Guy in Psychology Lecture, 4:30-5:45 p.m., every Tuesday and Thursday since Jan. 19, 2010.
Me: What'd you do this weekend?
Him: Get drunk.
(10 minutes pass.)
Me: Is he still talking?
Him: Was he talking?
(20 minutes pass.)
Me: If I sleep through this lecture and make you take notes, then you can sleep through the next one.
Him: Deal.
Despite our biweekly interactions, our conversations hadn't advanced to a more dynamic level of trust and compassion in time for Valentine's Day. But who knows what the future holds! Basket-buying chances: 22 percent.
Prospect #4: Scanner Dan, 2:15 p.m. Feb. 8, 2010.
Standing in front of Einstein Bros. Bagels, homeless Madison personality Scanner Dan smiled and scanned me up and down with his eyes.
Then, he bellowed a long, long laugh. Amused, I returned the favor and laughed back.
He looked at me, eyes gleaming with shock, perhaps awed at receiving a mirrored response. Then, Scanner pointed and yelled, ""SHE'S GOT DIARRHEA! THAT GIRL'S GOT DIARRHEA!""
The yell incited stares and snickers from State Street passersby, particularly toward the direction of my ass as people anticipated a Mt. Etna-explosion of sorts.
Since that day, Scanner Dan and I have crossed paths numerous times, and each time he scans me and bellows a hearty laugh. Hey, at least he remembers me! Chances of basket-wielding: a tremendous 92 percent!
Despite the endearing interactions, none of these prime prospects, of course, bought me my Valentine's Day present. But instead of wallowing in pity, I'm going to continue tearing into my mouth-watering cheese, sausage and tropical fruits. Oh, love is in the air!
Did you receive a gift from an unsuspecting person? Share your story with me at gleicher@wisc.edu.
