My Descent into Plant-Based Paranoia
It happened again last night. I was sprawled on the couch, surrounded by empty takeout containers and the remnants of a stress-induced online shopping spree (who needs a budget when you have next-day delivery?). As I was about to shame-spiral down a YouTube rabbit hole of cake decorating videos (I can barely boil water), I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.
Bertram, my majestic, undeniably high-maintenance fiddle leaf fig, was doing THAT thing. You know, *that* thing where plants subtly shift their leaves as if to say, “Are you kidding me with this right now?”
Exhibit A: The Case of the Crumbling Cookie Dough
Remember that sourdough bread baking phase everyone went through during the, shall we not name it, times? Yeah, well, Bertram witnessed the aftermath of my attempt. Let’s just say flour was involved. A lot of flour. And not all of it made it into the bowl.
I swear, as I surveyed the disaster zone that was my kitchen, Bertram’s leaves seemed to shrivel in horror. It was as if he was whispering, “I’m surrounded by an amateur,” in plant language. Which, let’s be real, is probably just the sound of leaves rustling, but still!
Exhibit B: The Great Unwatering of 2023
I’m a firm believer in tough love. Unfortunately, I sometimes apply this logic to my plant care routine. Bertram has endured periods of what I like to call “character-building dryness.” Okay, fine, I forgot to water him. More than once.
Each time, as I approach with the watering can, guilt gnawing at my conscience, Bertram seems to stand a little taller, leaves stiff with judgment. He’s judging me, and he’s got every right to.