You know how they say that recovering alcoholics have to successfully grow plants before they can have relationships? I do, because I watch a lot of TV and movies so, trust me, it’s totally true. I’ve basically gone to AA. Well, this idea that the way you care for your plants is indicative of how you deal with personal relationships made me ponder something, and I must say the conclusion I’ve reached is more terrifying than Ayn Rand.
You see, I’ve grown many plants. Too many to count… If you are unable to count to, like, 20. And most of my plants have done pretty successfully, with only one exception. And the exception was surprising.
Was it my fern friend? No.
Was it my exotic merlinpeen plant that can only be fed red wine and needs the room kept at 71 degrees exactly? No. Partially because that plant doesn’t exist, but when I tried to think of a really difficult shrub I was unable to. The point is I’ve dealt with some difficult plants!
The one plant I’ve killed, you must suspect, had to have been incredibly weak — the kind that shrivels up and turns into a black hole when you touch it because the chemicals on its leaves form anti-matter when they interact with the oil in your skin.
Alas, I have to tell you the truth. The plant that died was none other than the plant most notorious for being easy to care for: a cactus. Behold the proof!
I don’t have proof my other plants live. I don’t need proof! I’m a good Samaritan!
If one’s relationships with plants is a metaphor for one’s relationship with other ones, then the fact that the only plant I am unable to keep alive is the most laid-back, care-free, tequila-sipping mother effing plant out there is sort of terrifying. It means I can easily deal with high maintenance relationships (or as high maintenance as a fern can be, which is surprisingly bitchy), but when it comes to things that should be simple, I fail. I completely and utterly fail. Because when I should just water them once every season, I instead crouch over them with a bucket of water and a a friendship bracelet.
I don’t know whether I’m talking about the metaphor or the actual thing anymore.
Regardless!!! The death of Cactus Friend has led me to the stark realization that, yes, I am indeed akin to your raving, overbearing, OCD mother who calls you when you’re 20 minutes late to make sure you haven’t been kidnapped and turned into a Russian sex slave.