My Thumb Is Apparently Not So Green
Let’s be honest, I’m not exactly known for my nurturing instincts. I’m the guy who forgets birthdays, waters plants with juice boxes (don’t ask), and once accidentally killed a cactus. So, when my well-meaning friend gifted me a houseplant, I accepted it with the enthusiasm of a condemned man facing his last meal. I mean, this poor, unsuspecting fern was destined to become another casualty in my war against greenery.
I named him Steve. I figured if I gave him a name, maybe, just maybe, I’d feel bad enough to keep him alive.
Steve, bless his heart, was a trooper. He endured weeks of neglect, sporadic watering (sometimes with orange juice, I confess), and questionable lighting conditions. He drooped, he wilted, he practically begged for the sweet release of death. But something in me, maybe a shred of guilt or perhaps just the fear of judgment from my plant-loving friend, wouldn’t let me give up on him entirely.
One particularly dismal Tuesday, after a grueling day at work, I stumbled upon Steve looking more lifeless than usual. “Alright, buddy,” I muttered, “that’s it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.” I grabbed my laptop, did some frantic Googling, and discovered that (surprise, surprise) I was basically torturing the poor plant.
I learned about proper drainage, the importance of sunlight (who knew?), and the existence of plant food (mind blown). And so began Steve’s road to recovery, a journey that mirrored my own attempts at self-improvement. It wasn’t always pretty (repotting is messy, folks), but slowly, miraculously, Steve started to thrive.