Everywhere I look, flowers are blooming. Unless I look at my yard, where plants are held hostage in my little death camp garden. I can not grow things. I’m like a foliage serial killer–without the cool TV series.
Some people use gardening as meditation, working the soil, feeling the fresh earth between their fingers. But instead of dropping me into a Zen state, gardening pisses me off. If I spend 5 hours pulling the damn weeds, they’d better stay pulled.
Here are the Top 5 Signs I Shouldn’t Be a Gardener:
#1–I’m a Tad Forgetful: Wildflowers don’t need someone dumping water on them, so why do my flowers insist on being hand-fed every day?Seems kind of lazy to me, petunias. It’s sad to watch my plants implore passersby to either give them a drink of water, or stone them to death.
#2–I Don’t Like Pain: I’ve spent my entire life avoiding painful things. I don’t run with scissors. I don’t do base jumping. I’ve never ridden a bull. So, why would I shove my hand into thorny shrubbery to remove the weeds slowly choking the life out of it? Everything I touch seems to have bristles that leave my fingers consistently swollen and sliver-infested.
#3–My Houseplants Commit Suicide: Self-explanatory. I’ve even had plastic plants shrivel up and die.
#4–It’s Never the Perfect Temperature: Gardening in Utah has to be quick. Flowers bloom in April, but only have until July before the sun bakes their little petals into tea leaves. Whenever the urge to “garden” hits me (usually in the form of my husband telling me to get outside and weed), it’s either a) too windy, b) too hot, c) too cold, d) too dry, e) too boring or f) just not of interest to me at the time. (Let me finish this little George R. R. Martin book, and I’ll be out.)
#5–It’s Boooooring: I’d rather watch NASCAR. I’d rather clean grout. I’d rather listen to a book on tape read by Forrest Gump. I’d rather sit through a marriage seminar (and I might have to if I don’t start watering the roses). I’ve heard people say, “Time just stands still when I’m in my garden.” Yeah, because it’s boring as hell.
Luckily, my husband enjoys doing tedious tasks while being impaled by overgrown brambles. So, we compomised. He does the yard work–and I don’t.