I feel like the protagonist in one of those sad self-sacrifice movies where the main character must give up her baby, or shoot her dog, or fly her plane into the enemy’s camp, or fly her spacecraft into the bad guy’s warship, or stay on the meteor to set the explosives.
My tomatoes are loaded with fruit. It is just not fair.
I have read that it’s my duty to pull out plants infested with powdery mildew because if I don’t, the spores from the infected plants will spread not just to my other plants—but also to my neighbor’s garden.
The guilt was eating at me.
I couldn’t infect my neighbor’s plants. Then I peeked over the fence at my neighbor’s garden and realized that there were no spores on this earth that would make his plants look any worse. A lighted match was the best thing I could do for that “garden.”
I turned back to my garden, circle it, and organized my plan of attack. Oh, wait a minute; I need to gather up my ripping out tools.
I left and went to the garage—to get my tools of destruction.
When I went to the garage, I realized I had a load of clothes in the washer that needed to go in the dryer. So I did that.
I was very thirsty, so I poured myself a glass or water, that turned into a Margarita and pretty soon The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills were calling to me.
“Please come watch us. Our lives are more messed up than yours. Even though we have fake boobs and lots of money.”
So I scurried off and did that.
I repeated this for several days.
The days turned into weeks and my tomatoes and the other plants in my veggie garden look even worse but they are still producing.
Maybe I’ll pull them out tomorrow.
I guess I’m just not cut out to be a self-sacrificing hero.