Tiptoe Through the Tulips

I don’t like roses and I don’t like tiger lilies. Roses reek of clichés and tradition while the stench of a tiger lily can only be tolerated by the bravest of iconoclasts. Just like in all other aspects of my life, I fall in the middle, nothing short of average. I’m opinionated enough to be jaded by the absolute mundane, but I’m much too cowardly to even venture near the perimeter of the unknown.

There is little about me that stand out from the next person. Dark brown eyes, right-handedness, full cheeks around flawed features, crippling pride and narcissism unsuccessfully smothered with a heavy cloak of modesty, height that succumbed to gravity far too early: all characteristics shared by the majority. But I deliberately take it a few steps further. My hair has to endure daily torture as I go to great lengths to straighten out its flaws, too afraid of my unruly ringlets, a small source of my limited uniqueness. I wrenched myself away from the blurry, tentative dream I had of making a living out of my sarcasm, and instead settled for pursuing a career in a science I’m barely passable at, just because I see more certainty in this path. I could have taken a year off after graduation to finally give in to my lifelong desire of drinking in the marvels of the world firsthand, traveling with barely enough money to make it to the neighboring country, but I didn’t because that wasn’t as safe and secure as going off to college. I even had the choice to go to college all over the state and in a few others, but I stuck to the one closest to home without thinking twice. Sometimes, I wish I could channel our old friend Robert and stride confidently onto the road less traveled* without a backward glance, but an impenetrable wall of inhibitions keeps me out.

I do try. I force myself to try to break free from my self-inflicted shackles, molt my protective exterior and let my Achilles’ heel show once in a while. I put on a façade of effervescent energy and confidence in hopes that I’ll grow into it someday.

But I just can’t bring myself to love tiger lilies. The fiery color blinds me and the petals burst open outward, flaunting scattered splotches of imperfections with an unwavering courage I would never possess.

And so I console myself with plain tulips. The flower’s beauty comes from the simplicity of its make, the security of its closed bulb, the smoothness of its slender stalk, the evenness of its untainted color. I feel comfort when I’m blanketed by its monochromatic petals of convention, and for now I’m going to let myself enjoy being cocooned inside pure hues of calm.

*The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

PS. I will give a zillion brownie points to whoever can get where I got the title from.

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