We’ve all been there. You’re sprawled on the couch, three episodes deep into a true crime documentary, a half-eaten bag of chips precariously balanced on your stomach. You glance up, and there it is: the knowing stare of your houseplant, silently judging your life choices from the corner.
Okay, maybe I’m projecting a little. But after living with my leafy roommate, Geraldine the Monstera, for the past two years, I’m convinced there’s more going on behind those emerald-green leaves than meets the eye. Don’t believe me? Let me present my case.
Exhibit A: The Great Monstera Watering Debacle of 2023
Geraldine, like most Monsteras, enjoys a good drink. But she’s also a bit of a drama queen. Forget to water her for a day, and her leaves will droop lower than my motivation on a Monday morning.
This wouldn’t be so bad, except she’s developed this uncanny ability to time her dramatic wilting episodes with the arrival of guests. One minute, I’m welcoming my friends into my (relatively) tidy apartment. The next, they’re staring in horror at Geraldine, who looks like she’s about to audition for a role in a post-apocalyptic film.
“Is she…okay?” they ask, their voices laced with concern (and maybe a hint of judgment for my apparent plant neglect).
“She’s fine, just being dramatic,” I mumble, rushing to grab the watering can.
Geraldine, of course, perks up within minutes, leaving me to explain to my bewildered friends that no, I don’t usually torture my plants.
