Feng shui

House plants. I kill them. Every time.

But the thing is, they almost always trick me into thinking I won't. They have this uncanny, almost sentient way of knowing exactly how long to stay alive, often a substantial period—weeks, months, even years!—in order to falsely lure me into complacency. So long in fact that I get comfortable in my success, cocksure, occasionally investing in even more house plants that eventually, most certainly, meet the same fate. They die.

But before they do, man, they thrive! Lush, bushy foliage convince me of a nascent green thumbery, a newfound knack for interior gardening that had, clearly until now, eluded me. Those other plants? Duds, lemons. But this one, this little beaut, this gorgeous, hearty thing, it will be the plant that LIVES!

How considerate it is, allowing me this fantasy, along with the time and space to master its exotic, finicky ways: the need to water just enough with the exact right cadence, and letting me fall in love with the way it goes just so with my decor.

But then I notice a slight tinge. Just a hint of color, the tip of one leaf, hardly a bruise, and dread descends. No, no, no, not again! I think. I was so good this time! I watered it! There was ample window light! I didn't even go on vacation! 

To anyone else this plant might look very much alive, a picture of health, but I know what's coming. It'll take months for that yellowing to spread but slowly, surely, some flesh-eating plant plague takes over and the drying, cracking, and shedding begins. From there it's only a matter of time. Often, I don't wait for the rest; I put the poor thing out of its misery and dump the whole clump in the trash, dirt and all, woefully mourning my efforts and vowing more diligence with the next attempt.

So what is a girl to do? When does this dying begin? Is it when the last leaf falls...or when that tiny malaise first sets in? Is it, as I have before feared, upon the first missed watering? Or what happens after, when an over-saturation tries to make up for lost time, the fussing and over-plucking that follows an unintentional, momentary lapse in attention?

Or, worst of all, my deepest anxiety: could it be sooner, the very first moment I bring that damn, ill-fated vine across the threshold of my home, the second I reach for the flora in the supermarket, still plucky and hopeful, unwittingly doomed for an abridged life of interment?

Despite my cruel, murderous tendencies, I remain committed to the cause: airy feng shui.