It’s Not Me, It’s You - A Houseplant’s Struggle for Survival

There's a girl I know named Sara, and she's one of the most beautiful creatures around. She works in a nearby fabric shop that also happens to do tailoring, which may be why she does not capture all of the potential eyes that she otherwise might. A hidden gem, you might say.

That alone is a bad idea. Ten out of ten, I do not recommend. My father was worthless on dating advice. He said, "Son, you know how the lion chases the gazelles out on the plain?"

"Yeah."

"They always get the one at the back of the herd. You need to do the same. Start dating the fat ones and the ugly ones. Then, the ones you are actually interested in will start to wonder why you aren't interested in them, and bingo, you're in!"

I ignored his advice. Emma said I was smothering, and that was that. It was a good first lesson in performance anxiety.

Either way, in the case of the low self-esteem greenery, there was definitely something at play that went beyond any level of plant care.

Let's just say that if there were a plant protection program, Sara would be on the watchlist.

The same pothos that withered in her living room miraculously came back to life as soon as she gave it to her friend. Coincidence? I think not.

To hear her tell it, she tried everything—mood lighting, pep talks, even playing classical music. Apparently, Beethoven doesn't work on begonias. But I am convinced they liked it better than some of that oompah boompah electronic music I've heard coming from her workstation when I was picking up patterns for my wife.

Like a helicopter parent, she was known to hover over her plants, checking soil moisture every five minutes. Turns out, plants don't like being micromanaged any more than teenagers do. I probably should have told her that, not that she would understand what it is like to have teenagers.

One time, she bought a humidifier at Home Depot for a fern. It died anyway, probably from the pressure of being treated like royalty.

Sara once apologized to a succulent for forgetting its watering day. Her roommate still hasn't stopped laughing. To be fair, her roommate is about as helpful in the realm of tending to plant life as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

Sara's mother swears she could kill a plastic plant. That's not a fair assessment, in my opinion, but I see where her momma would come to that conclusion. Her friends have started giving her fake flowers as gifts, 'just in case.'

That does not stop them from giving her advice, as she relayed to us recently while twirling an empty box of MiracleGro in her fingers.

"‘Just water it once a week.’ ‘Put it in a sunny spot.’ ‘Stop touching it like it’s a newborn baby.’ Thanks, y’all, but my plants don’t seem to care about your advice."

"We all know that one person who claims to talk to their plants and insists it’s the secret to success. I thought from all the magazines that it might be me, but my plants just stare at me like, ‘Stop, girl. You’re embarrassing yourself.’"

Situations like this just make you stop and think, if for no other reason than to be of some help. I'm no Freud, but maybe the issue isn't the plants. Perhaps it's her own need for them to thrive as proof that she's now a functioning adult.

Our lovely lass clapped the box down on the counter in frustration and said, "If a plant wants to live, great. If it doesn’t, that’s its business. I’m done taking the blame." That seemed to make her feel better than we did, and she finished, "Plants come and go. That’s life. Or at least that’s my life. And I’m okay with it."

The missus took her side without much surprise and observed, "Plants are just like people: Some can’t handle the spotlight. And some—most of Sara's anyway—are just drama queens."

We heard from her that from now on, she's sticking to the plastic plants. They don't wilt, they don't shed, and best of all, they don't judge her.

To me, that sounds like a plan and a time saver. Because if plants can't survive in her care, at least her ego and self-respect will.