All plants need to see the world.

I got a cactus last weekend. You probably already know this because I won’t shut up about it. It came in a sand art planter that screams 70s so much, I have named the plant Jonathan Livingston Cactus. I just checked my phone, and it contains fourteen pics of Jon. Fourteen. More pictures exist of this cactus than of my baptism. I cleared out a space of honor on the plant shelf in my kitchen window then ran downstairs to see if passersby on 9th Street could see him. They could. I IM’d my buddy Damian, who is some sort of plant whisperer, about care and feeding. A little bit of water every other week and plenty of sun. Then I went to bed, content in knowing I had given a cactus a good home. If I remembered dreams, I would say I dreamt about pushing Jon in a swing garlanded with gerbera daisies.

Upon waking up Sunday morning, I got my customary swig of Diet Coke out of the fridge, and he was there on his shelf being all cactus-y. I imagined myself telling people things like “Oh, that’s so Jon!” I wondered whom I could call that morning to tell about the cactus but decided that maybe 8am on Sunday wasn’t the best time for breathless cactus news.

Then the wheels started turning: What was I doing up at 8am on a Sunday? Don’t I have a life? Has my life shrunk down to the point where purchasing a cactus becomes a life event? Remember when you had dreams? You don’t deserve a cactus like Jon!

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