life after I discovered binge-watching true crime documentaries.
“Underwatering!” I chastised myself, rushing to the sink with the dramatic flair of a Regency-era heroine fainting onto a conveniently placed chaise lounge. But as I drenched the soil (possibly a tad excessively, but hey, gotta make up for lost time, right?), a strange feeling washed over me. It wasn’t guilt. It was the distinct sensation of being judged.
“What?” I snapped, feeling unfairly judged. “Not everyone can be a natural in the kitchen! Some of us are better suited to…um…ordering takeout and then meticulously arranging the containers to look like we totally cooked.”
The spider plant remained unconvinced. Its leaves crinkled further, as if to say, “Darling, even *I* could have produced a more edible outcome.”
If my wilting peace lily is my plant-world conscience, then my relentlessly thriving succulent is my overachieving, slightly smug older sibling. This thing could survive a nuclear apocalypse, a zombie invasion, and probably even a week-long music festival (though it might judge the attendees’ fashion choices).
The other day, I was feeling particularly proud of myself for finally tackling that pile of laundry that had been morphing into a sentient being in the corner. As I basked in the glow of my domestic triumph, my gaze fell upon the succulent, perched jauntily on the windowsill.
It was practically glowing with health. New growth sprouted everywhere, practically screaming, “Oh, you’re JUST NOW getting around to laundry? I’ve already photosynthesized enough energy to power a small village, learned fluent Mandarin, AND discovered the meaning of life—all before breakfast.”
I swear, if that succulent could talk, it would probably launch into a detailed lecture about maximizing my productivity and the benefits of a solid morning routine.
Do Houseplants Judge Us? A Final Verdict (Maybe?)
Okay, okay, maybe I’m being a *tad* dramatic. It’s entirely possible that my peace lily is just thirsty, and my succulent is simply living its best life. But there’s a part of me that can’t help but feel like my houseplants are privy to all my little quirks, my triumphs, and my (many) moments of “adulting fail.”
What do you think? Am I just a *little* too obsessed with my houseplants, or do your leafy roommates also have a knack for making you question your life choices? Tell me your thoughts in the comments below!