I just bought a plant.
I know that sounds like one of those boring things people post on Facebook along with pictures of the salad they ate for lunch, but trust me, it was a moment.
My husband collects orchids. He doesn’t just collect them and love them and talk to them, he rescues them. Other people leave orchids – and in some cases plants they think are orchids but aren’t – on our doorstep like babies in baskets. (Yes, really.) One had a note that said, “save me.” His hairdresser has instructions to call him when the orchids in the shop go out of bloom just in case someone tries to hurt one in its dormancy. All of which means I am married to the ridiculously handsome version of Nero Wolfe. And that means I’m allowed to touch the plants in our house pretty much never.
Okay, so yes, one time I left a candle burning too close to a phalaenopsis, and it got a little singed. It was an accident. I apologized.
But now I have gone out – and by “go out” I mean “go on the internet” – and purchased my very own plant. I have named him Fred.
Fred came with his own little house, which means my plant owns more real estate than I do. Fortunately, I don’t hold a grudge about these kinds of things. I think we’re going to be very happy together.