Martha Would Be Proud

So I have this plant in my office...wait, my cubicle...okay, my "work space." I'm not exactly sure what kind of plant it is, I think it's some kind of lilly. I have a tricky relationship with this plant - it involves the giving and taking of water, the sorrows of a drooping leaf, the joys of a solitary new flower, and the deep conversations that we have about things like formatting header/footers, bludgeoning the copy machine into submission, and the jerks who don't return my phone calls.

I've learned that if you're very patient and observant, a plant is much like a good pet. Plants let you know when they need attention, like when it's leaves start to die or go limp and sag to the table. Unlike their human counterparts, plants never argue with you or guilt you into doing things like taking them to the airport at 4:30 in the morning. And while they may lack a little bit in the sense-of-humor department, they sure know how to make you smile when they put up a new leaf or (if you're an attentive pet-owner) a new flower.

The "lilly" in my office has three flowers on it. That's more than the total number of flowers it's made in the year and a half I've owned it. I think it's producing these new flowers because I've really been investing a lot in our relationship lately (perhaps to the detriment of actually accomplishing real work while at the office but, shhhh, we wont talk about that). I attribute my plants recent attempts to provide me with flower-induced joy, to the long conversations that we have late into the evening, to the fact that I keep its leaves dust free, and that I don't wait until the leaves droop to give it water. This plant has taught me that, much like any furry pet, the more intimate you become with your herbivorous friend, the more satisfaction and joy will be bestowed upon you.