We’ve all been there. You’re sprawled on the couch, three episodes deep into a reality TV marathon, a half-eaten bag of chips balanced precariously on your stomach. You glance up, and there it is: your plant. Standing tall, leaves glistening, silently judging your life choices.
The Side-Eye From My Fiddle-Leaf Fig
My moment of truth came with Bartholomew, my prized fiddle-leaf fig. Now, Bartholomew is a drama queen, prone to wilting dramatically at the slightest change in humidity. I’d spent months catering to his every whim, misting his leaves with Evian (okay, maybe not Evian, but definitely filtered water), and singing him off-key show tunes. You’d think he’d show a little gratitude.
But one particularly harrowing Tuesday evening, as I drowned my sorrows in a pint of ice cream after a truly awful date (he chewed with his mouth open, folks, the horror!), I caught Bartholomew’s gaze.
