Free Has Anyone Seen My Pants? by Sarah Colonna

the image of the flowers to admire my work and was horrified to find that 1800Flowers.com did not send Baseball Player the sunflowers I had requested. Instead, it was just an arrangement of various flowers with like one-and-a-half sunflowers shoved in the middle. So now my sweet idea because of his text about no sun made no sense and it just looked like I randomly sent him a bouquet that looked like something you’d only send to a baseball player if it was for his funeral.
    I immediately wrote back: “That was supposed to be all sunflowers! To send you sun in Seattle. Ugh, nobody ever listens to me.”
    He wrote back “Haha,” and that was it. I was mortified. He probably picked the flowers up at the front desk, after his game, with all of his teammates standing right behind him, asking him who had died. Ugh, I’m such a loser. A sweet loser, but a loser nonetheless.
    I immediately called Tara and Steph and told them my life was ruined, then I called Two Rings and told her that next timeI wanted her to give me advice, I was going to remind myself that two failed rings doesn’t necessarily trump my zero rings. She laughed; it’s something I’ve said to her like thirty-seven times. Then she came over and brought me a bottle of vodka.
    I felt like communication from Baseball Player tapered off a little after that. I might have just been paranoid, but it didn’t seem like he was as flirty as he was before. And the texts were coming a little less frequently. God, I hated flowers.
    To make things worse, daily, I’d get an e-mail from 1800Flowers.com reminding me that I’d sent a big dumb bouquet of flowers to a Major League Baseball player . For some reason, I couldn’t seem to unsubscribe. I swear I tried—it was like a mean joke was being played on me every time I checked my e-mail.
    Of course, I kept Tara and Steph updated on any and all conversation between Baseball Player and me. They figured he was just busy and soon things would “heat up” again.
    They were right. Out of nowhere, our texting picked up again.
    “Maybe he suffered a concussion and forgot about the flowers!” I happily told Tara and Steph.
    They agreed, but also suggested enough was enough. This back-and-forth, high-and-low, was too much for them to take anymore. They informed me it was time to take this texting relationship to the next level: sex.
    “He won’t be here until the end of the summer,” Tara said. “That’s too far away.”
    Steph and I agreed and so together, over margaritas, we pored over his team’s schedule and came up with a plan.
    “A game plan!” I said proudly, and laughed.
    Tara and Steph just looked at me.
    “Maybe don’t lead off with one of your ‘jokes’ when you meet him,” Steph suggested gently.
    “But . . .” I started to defend myself and my “jokes.”
    “Sweetie, no,” Tara said flatly.
    “Okay.”
    So the game plan (they aren’t here to judge me right now) was this: he would be in San Francisco in a few short weeks and I would fly up for a game and some long-time-in-coming “doing it.”
    Unsure of how to proceed, the girls suggested I inform him of the possibility of my having the weekend free when he was only a short flight away and told me to ask him if he thought he’d have time to “take me out for a drink.”
    “Of course!” he quickly replied. “Do it, come see me.”
    The plan was in motion. I booked my flight.
    “Look, he’s a Major League Baseball player ,” Stephanie said (this had become her favorite thing to say). “He probably has a ton of twentysomething-year-old girls after him. You need to show him that you have your own career, your own money, and that he doesn’t need to take care of you. You need to show him that you can travel the same way he is used to traveling. You can be his equal .”
    “Oh, you mean like how I needed to show him how thoughtful I am by sending him fucking flowers like a big dumb asshole?”
    Steph and Tara stood behind their decision