Loves Me, Loves Me Not

J'adore... that I have an aunt who carried a simple bouquet of daisies on her wedding day.

By the way, the French term for daisy is le marguerite. Yes, it's masculine.

The je ne sais quoi that makes a word either feminine or masculine in French completely escapes me. I am more than a little awful at learning new languages.

While we are on the subject of daisies though...

When you were a little girl, growing up stateside, like me, did you play he loves me, he loves me not? You know, the game with the pretty little flower petals.

There was a time when it seemed like such a sweet and idyllic thing to do.

Or, at least, I thought so. Now I see that it is actually a little destructive. It isn't just a beautiful bloom that we are pulling apart piece by piece...

To be so impressionable in age while contemplating ones worth in an all or nothing way on a flower of fate. It is dangerous. Our hearts are at risk. After all, there are only two options. He either loves us and we are worthy. Or he doesn't and.... hmmm, well, that hurts.

I recently read in the book What French Women Know that in France, little girls play this game too, but with a twist. They have more options. As they pull petals they say Il m'aime un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, a la folie, pas du tout.

He loves me a little. A lot. Passionately. Madly. Not at all.

The odds are so much better the French way. Stacked in our favor even. It is doubtful that any man will pull the pas du tout, rendering us completely unworthy of love. Imagine that?



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