AMERICANWAY
FEBRUARY 1 2008
S H A H I N T A K E S O F F
98
LOOKWHAT’S NEW
Want to signup for free e-mail notificationof
Jim’s columnor to seepast columns?Go to
ILLUSTRATIONBYAMANDADUFFY
Lessons in the
Languageof Love
ByJimShahin
“Iknow,” I interrupt, helpingherarticulate
her thought. “Fantastic.”
“I don’t know what you were thinking,”
she says.
“I was thinking women like shoes,” I say,
uncomprehending, as if I’m trying to remem-
ber something about factitive verbs.
“Women do,” she confirms. “But shoes
they canwear.”
“You canwear those,” I protest.
She shootsmea look that does the talking
for her. I don’t knowexactlywhat it is saying,
but it seems to be saying something like “I
married an idiot.”
I guess women don’t like backless clear
five-inchplatform heels. Howwould I know?
She takes off the shoes.
Women
, I think. Chinese is easier to un-
derstand.
SO, VALENTINE’SDAY
is in the air.
The languageof
amore
(Chinese for “love”)
is in the air. Do I grasp the grammar of
amore?
Like factitive verbs, I do.
LikeChinese.
Like backless five-inchplatform heels.
So, okay, I can learn.
Flowers. Flow-hers. Flowers.
See?Easy.
I go to aflor-ist.
“Hi,” I say, all chipper and ready tomaster
the language. “I’d like someflowers.”
“Verywell,” says the slendermanwith the
black-rimmed glasses as he comes out from
behind the counter. “What type?”
“Type?”
“Roses?”
“Roses soundgood.”
“Red? Yellow? Bridal pink? Long-
stemmed?”
I look around and want to reach in my
back pocket for a translation book. “Yes.
Roses. Roses soundnice. Good. Those… those
are nice.”
“The carnations?” he says. “Yes, they are
nice.”
“Carnations?They look like roses.”
“Yes,” he says in a tone that almost
successfully hides what he is really saying:
This guy is an idiot.
“Um, what about abouquet?”
IF LOVE HAS A LANGUAGE,
I don’t know
how to speak it.
Take the gift I gavemywife last fall.
“Got you apresent,” I say.
She looks at me quizzically. Why? she
wonders. It’s not her birthday, not our anni-
versary.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Open it.”
Shereaches insidethedecorativebag;pulls
out a box; opens the lid; and, from beneath
the tissue paper, pulls out apair of shoes.
In the languageof love, shoes are towom-
enwhat capital letters are to grammar … or
syntax … or something language-y. The point
is that women like shoes. So they should like
gifts of shoes from their husbands.
Simple.MeTarzan, you Jane.
She takes a shoe and dangles it at arm’s
length as apersonmight hold adead rodent.
“Great, huh?” I say.
“I don’t think I canwalk in them,” she re-
plies.
“Sure you can,” I assure her. “Try ’em on.”
She slips her feet into them.
“Wow,” I say. “You look incredible.”
“Jim,” she says, wobbling a little, “I can
barely stand up.”
“That’sokay, that’sokay,” I say, and remind
herofapieceofwisdomhermother imparted
to her. “Suffer for fashion.”
“This isn’t suffering.” she says. “This is
torture. And it’s not fashion. It’s…”
“We have many arrangements to choose
from. Assorted irises. Very playful. Tulips,
perhaps. For something elegant, white den-
drobium orchids. Of course, you could get a
bouquet of roses. Or, if you prefer, a bouquet
of carnations.”
“Let’s, uh, forget the carnations. Okay?”
“As youwish.”
Standing amid the tall, short, elongated,
stubby, red, purple, blue, yellow, white flow-
ers, I am aswobbly asmywife iswhen she’s
wearing those platform heels. My senses
descend into a hallucination of color and fra-
grance, and I feel myself swirling around and
around, like aguy in a surrealistmovie.
It’s all Chinese tome. OrArabic. Or Swed-
ish. Or, heck, English. Thegrammar offlowers
eludesme.
“I think I’ll think about it.”
The salesman nods. “Surely,” he says.
I leave to the tinkling of a little bell above
the door.
CHOCOLATES.
She loves chocolates.Whatwomandoesn’t?
Apparently, there is even a kind of endorphin
pleasure thing that chocolates release in some
part of thebrain. Great. Yes. Chocolates.
I pop my head into a confectionery a
couple of blocks from the florist. In the case
is a babble of choices: milk chocolate, dark
chocolate, white chocolate, truffles, nougat,
chocolate-covered nuts, chocolate-covered
fruit, handcrafted artisan chocolate, organic
chocolate, chocolate petits fours.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the
counter asks.
“Just looking,” I say.
I wander down the street. Although I am
in my neighborhood, a few blocks from the
house, I feel like a stranger in a strange land.
I can’t findwhat Iwant to say.
And then I come across a shoe store.
There, in the window, is a pair of strappy
things. Stiletto heels. Open-toe.
They speakmy language.
She’ll love ’em. I know it.
