I’m a plant killer. It’s not intentional. I do enjoy plants. My sister-in-law has a corner full of plants and I could sit in front of them like a kid sits in front of cartoons. Their beauty and rich green life have a soothing effect on me. However, I still kill plants.
When someone gives me a plant as a gift, on the outside, I thank her warmly for her thoughtfulness and generosity.
On the inside, I’m screaming,“NO, PLEASE, NO! You don’t understand. This lovely, leafy friend will die a slow, thirsty death. I’ve killed cactuses! Take this innocent plant back to the safety of your domicile. My home is a desert wasteland!”
Initially, I do try to faithfully tend to my gift and for a little while delude myself into thinking I’m actually good at taking care of plants. Inevitably, I regress to my scattered, yet endearing, self. I begin to look at the plant and, in my head, or sometimes out loud I say various things:
“Hmm. I think that plant needs water.”
“When was the last time I watered that thing?”
“I need to water that plant.”
This can go on for weeks. I look, utter the phrase, and pass by. Then comes the staring. When I simply stare at the plant without making reference to it, when there’s nothing more to say about it, because it has morphed into a brown, shriveled, desiccated mess, well, you’d think it was over. Nope. I can stare at the pathetic wreckage formerly know as my plant for as long as it takes. I could win a “Stare at Your Dead Plant” marathon.
Sometimes my husband throws it out. I know, I’m a coward, but hucking that thing in the trash makes me feel like such a failure.
We have plastic representations of plants in our home now. I’ve successfully grown dust on all of them.
So there. I’ve confessed. I’m a plant killer. Anyone who knows me and loves me would be wise not to gift me anymore plants, for the sake of my self-esteem and growing things everywhere. Thank you. Moving on.
Oh yeah. The other day my kids told me they wanted a dog. 😉