We’ve all been there. You know, that moment when you lock eyes with someone and just know they’re judging you? The subtle eyebrow raise, the barely perceptible smirk, the way they shift their weight ever so slightly like they’re trying to distance themselves from your questionable life choices? Yeah, that’s how Beatrice, my prized fiddle-leaf fig, makes me feel on a daily basis.
The Side-Eye From My Fiddle-Leaf Fig
It all started innocently enough. I brought Beatrice home from the garden center, a vibrant vision of emerald green, promising myself (and her) that I, a notorious plant killer, would finally keep something alive for longer than it took to order takeout. For a blissful week, things were great. I watered her, misted her, even played her Mozart (because, you know, plants love classical music, or so I’ve heard).
My Houseplant Hates My Messy Habits
Now, I know what you’re thinking: it’s a plant, they don’t have feelings. But hear me out! The evidence is mounting. Like the time I let the dishes pile up in the sink for a particularly egregious amount of time (okay, fine, it was a week). Beatrice’s leaves, once proudly erect, drooped lower than my motivation to adult. Coincidence? I think not.
And then there was the great dusting debacle of 2023. I’d successfully ignored my cleaning duties for so long that a layer of dust had settled upon my furniture, my bookshelves, and yes, even poor Beatrice. I finally broke down and cleaned, but not before catching Beatrice giving me a withering look that seemed to say, “It’s about time.”