I kill plants dead. It’s just a fact of my life. It doesn’t matter how hearty a plant might be, or how to-the-letter I follow plant care instructions. If I have a plant to take care of, it dies much sooner than later. You’ll find no green thumbs on my paws. Luckily, I learned this factoid about myself in my kidhood, which has caused me to remain mostly plant-free throughout my adult life. In the 70’s, I stuck with pet rocks, and not one of them died. I was successful with rocks.
Every now and then, someone who doesn’t know I have black thumbs has unfortunately gifted me a plant. And on occasion, I have thought, “Well, maybe I can keep this one alive. I’ll try again.” So I water it, and nurture it, and make sure the plant is situated in the right amount of light. It inevitably ends badly for all parties involved. Most of the time, when I have received vegetation as a gift, I have had the good sense to hand it right off to anyone who is not me. The plants thrive under someone else’s care.
Suzanne has our abode stocked to the gills with plants, and they prosper. They surround me, and yet my black thumbs somehow aren’t deadly to them. How can this be? Well, I follow a strict policy with Suzanne’s houseplants: I act as if they don’t exist. I never talk to them, nor do I make eye contact with them. I certainly don’t try to care for them. So far, pretending the plants don’t exist has insured their continued existence. I know and accept my limitations, which is the beginning of sincere humility. Many plants lost their lives to teach me this lesson.
Even I kill plants on occasion.
That’s the exception that proves the rule!