25 Years Later, I Get My Dream Corsage
In 1892, everyone who was anyone in London was sporting a green carnation. The trend likely started when Oscar Wilde decided to drum up a little publicity for his latest play, Lady Windermere's Fan. One of the main characters wore the unconventional flower on their lapel, and the jaunty accessory became a sly way to promote the play — and possibly defy the establishment. The exact origins of the trend may never be ascertained, but there's no denying that dyed blooms were cool in the late 1800s. Immeasurably cool.
One thing I've never been is immeasurably cool. My precise amount of cool can easily be calculated, given that I have none. This was never truer than in the late 1990s when I was preparing to graduate high school. I didn't know anything about Oscar Wilde, but I desperately wanted to be different, but in the "wow, you are so stylish and mysterious" way, not in the "why are you wearing that" manner.
I'll give you one guess as to which sentence I heard the most.
Prom was going to change all that. For most teenagers, prom is synonymous with pals and partying. But not for me! I was obsessed with my corsage. This was my moment to truly blossom in every sense of the word. I wouldn't parade around in baby's breath and carnations like a peasant. Give me gardenias! I'd show everyone that I was no wallflower. I gave my wishlist to my boyfriend, forbade carnations, and waited for the spectacular petals, which would show everyone how alluring and inscrutable I was.
I bet you know how this is going to end.
The wilted white carnations my date presented weren't just a letdown—they were a monstrosity. Their curled edges had been dipped in teal ink to coordinate with my prom dress. The effect was as far from "I'm Oscar Wilde, and I'm making a statement about love and art" as you can imagine. However, it was a nice night. I had a pretty dress. I put on a happy face and told myself to get over it.
Frankly, I've been telling myself to get over it for 25 years. They're just flowers, right? What was wrong with me?
The answer might be in Dimitris Xygalatas's book, Ritual: How Seemingly Senseless Acts Make Life Worth Living. In his book, Xygalatas outlines how humans are genuinely a ritualistic species. Proms aren't about fun and fanfare. They are a rite of passage. It's something Xygalatas has seen firsthand as a professor. During the early COVID-19 pandemic shutdowns, he noted that his students were far more concerned about the fate of their graduation ceremonies than their actual education. Was I experiencing this phenomenon on a smaller scale? Was my prom ritual incomplete? I turned to Crystal Hill, owner and designer at Ottawa's Floral Envy, for some insights — and a corsage re-do.
Hill has been in the floral industry since 1990. When I told her about the disappointing teal-tipped carnations of my youth and my desire to craft the corsage of my dreams, she was on board. However, she had an important message for me. Hill stressed that being happy with flowers, no matter the occasion, is about communication and managing expectations. For instance, the gorgeous designs you see on Pinterest aren't so beautiful to the eyes of a trained florist. Those picture-perfect blooms are actually hyper-edited images that are found nowhere in nature. An experienced florist would much rather work with you to craft something authentic you'll love rather than trying to recreate something that only exists in dreams.
It was sound advice, especially considering that the gardenias I desired weren't going to happen. They could happen if I was willing to wait for the next shipment from the Netherlands, but for the time being, they were no more accessible to me than they had been all those years ago. Hill helped me see that what I really wanted wasn't a particular kind of flower. What I really craved was someone who recognized what the flowers meant to me.
In preparation for the corsage building, I sent Hill a long list of flowers I loved and those I didn't enjoy as much. Already, I was gaining some important insights into my own preferences. I might claim to be a gardenia-wearing sensation, but who am I kidding? I'm coziest with old-fashioned blooms from a farmhouse garden, like daffodils, daisies, and bachelor buttons, rather than anything that would fit in at a jazzy nightclub.
The result of our collaboration was a dream come true. My dainty wrist corsage was filled with tiny peachy-pink spray rose jana, white lisianthus, purple wax flower, asparagus plumosus, and finished off with a cheerful white pansy. However, my favourite thing was the little bouquet Hill brought along. It was a "prom posy," a quickly growing trend that reflects the desire of attendees not to marry the lines of their stunning gowns with chunky corsages. The posies incorporate a wider range of blooms, are charming in photos, and last for days. Delightful!
After working with Hill to design my corsage, I've determined that while I'll never have Oscar Wilde-worthy cool, it's pretty awesome that we share a particular flower. Maybe green carnations aren't so bad after all. However, I've learned that my flower personality aligns more with Anne from Anne of Green Gables. One of my favourite moments from the third book in the series (Anne of the Island) comes when Anne is preparing for an educational ritual of her own, her college graduation. At the very last second, Anne puts aside the exotic violets sent by her stately beau. Instead, she crosses the graduation stage carrying old-fashioned lilies of the valley sent by her old friend, Gilbert Blythe. Within a chapter, the beau is gone. A dozen pages later, Anne melts into Gilbert's arms. Did Anne's version of a prom posy carry the je ne sais quoi cache of Wilde's green carnation? No. But she finally got her happy ending, and so have I.