Not Worthy: Two Plants, My Husband, and The First Woman
Plant (n.): a gift that will instill panic and lead to a lack of appreciation and death.
As promised on Instagram, here’s the story about two plants, one from my husband and one from a woman, the “first” woman. I hope that my stories show someone who has stumbled but is brave enough to admit when she got it all wrong. I feel like a teenager when it comes to understanding myself since coming out in mid-life and having very little experience with relationships. (Reluctantly, I admit Bella from Poor Things has become my spirit animal.) As my website states, “I’ve learned that admitting I’m a good villain… makes me a decent hero.”
As I prepare for an upcoming endeavor in my solo sensuality quest, I hope the authenticity I bring to my journey brings to light what makes me flourish in appreciation even if it comes with initial denial, rolling eyes, and, at times, a lack of compassion…
Which usually means making it over the rough terrain of desperate self-preservation.
I’ve never been good with plants. My favorite flowers are carnations because they are cheap and last forever. I’m a sucker for a weak five-dollar bundle sitting in a putrid bucket at the grocery store.
I’ve made many attempts at developing a green thumb:
The 16 bushels of lavender in front of our house that made it down to eight and then four and finally got replaced with rocks.
The flower boxes by the door of The Foxhole that serve as a muse of death and decay.
The initial excitement of our garden which I soon lost interest in but selfishly picked grape tomatoes from… because someone else watered them.
What these mishaps have in common is they’ve all left me with prickled fingers that have pulled botanical carcass after botanical carcass from well-prepared, expensive soil mixes. It’s okay. I don’t need this skill on my resume nor am I desperate for this hobby.
When I pass immaculate yards in full bloom, I only think: Wow, this homeowner must be tethered to their home. What a psycho. As an explorer, I see home as a refuge after journeys where my only obligations requiring sustenance and care are the ones with the ability to tell me jokes, wash their own laundry (if you want to call it that), or accompany me on morning jogs.
And now, we come to a unique category: plants given as gifts.
I’m not a fan of getting plants as gifts because, to me, you might as well write these quips on the card:
“Here’s ornate tissue paper to use as a towel after your St. Bernard’s bath.”
“I’ve always wondered if you truly cared about our relationship, and keeping this fragile alstroemeria-child alive will prove it.”
(Had to Google that last one. They’re always the first to die in a bouquet.)
A plant as a gift is just unfair.
But there is hope.
Every morning after I enter my office, I turn on my lamps and string lights, open my blinds, and set my Lego floral bouquet and my mini purple orchids onto the window ledge. Both gifts from my husband for my birthday over three months ago, the Lego bouquet offers relief as I only give it an occasional blow-dusting, while the orchids initially came with trepidation.
But miracles do happen! The orchids are still thriving! I water them when I remember and hope indirect sunlight powers them to grow… until I worry if they’ll need to be replanted into a bigger pot or if this is just a forever-miniature hybrid version of orchids. See? I don’t know these magical things.
The colors are still vibrant and the accompanied cactus-like organic matter still has strength.
But this past week, I realized one of the mini orchids became crunchy and withered. I gasped and immediately plucked it off. After checking the soil (still moist: am I watering it too much?), I placed it back by the window, staring at it, willing it, daring it—as if it was my child receiving a warning to not act up while the in-laws visit—to behave.
I’m not going to say this plant is a symbol for my marriage, but I find the similarity of survival. We recently celebrated our 20th anniversary, and it’s been an interesting journey. Here’s the Cliff Notes version:
He was my first love. We broke up. We got back together after my downward spiral in college. He was stable, and I clung to him as he established himself in youth ministry in a traditional Southern Baptist church in southern Georgia.
(He says that’s why I wanted him because he was safe, but he was/is hot with amazing lips, a nice ass, and beautiful blue eyes. He’s the kindest and most genuine person I’ve ever met, and he gets my dark humor. We talk about everything… like, too much. Other couples would never dare to delve into our communicative treks.)
We had our first child and moved to North Carolina for seminary. We both went to school and worked. I took breaks with the additions of two more awesome kids and homeschooling.
He got a position at a church in rural South Carolina, and it was not a fit for us.
Moved to Washington State to replant a dying church.
COVID made us question a lot as we became more progressive. We maneuvered our way out of organized religion when we couldn’t ignore inconsistencies, hypocrisy, and facades anymore.
We talked about us. Really talked about us. As most of you know, a lot of it dealt with my desire to bloom in the once stifled areas of sensuality and sexuality.
The rollercoaster ride of opening up our relationship offered addicting highs, frustrations with force-fed growth, and endless pings of self-awareness.
Add grad school, more intentional pursuits into writing creative nonfiction, and the Huffington Post piece.
And then my move towards solo sensuality as I started meeting with a queer-, poly-, kink-friendly therapist.
We’ve just started therapy with a couples therapist because why not have two therapists?
Yes, an interesting journey. At times, a delicate one, but with strong, stubborn roots that reverberate and strengthen with songs like the Jackson 5’s “Never Can Say Goodbye.” (Gloria Gaynor’s version is too peppy. Still fun, but we’re supposed to be depressed here.)
And with that yearning, maybe I do treat that plant like a symbol for us. If I can keep this plant alive, it shows effort that reflects the desire to keep our relationship intact, right? Honestly, I think he would do wonderfully with someone else, someone “normal,” kind and not inclined to passionate rage. I’m the one who should be alone. Maybe with a sex robot or an escort on retainer.
Every time I think I've had enough
I start heading for the door
There's a very strange vibration
Piercin' me right to the core
It says, "Turn around, you fool
You know you love her more and more"
Tell me why (Tell me why)
Is it so (Is it so)
Don't wanna let you go
Maybe it’s not just one plant. Looking back since I met him on November 1, 1999 with instant attraction, we’ve been cultivating a proverbial rainforest, a metaphorical deep wood, a bog of exponentially growing nostalgia of tangled heartstrings.
Never can say goodbye
***
But this isn’t a story about one plant or an expanse of a marriage, fertilized by the manure of self-identity, coming out in mid-life, and endless references from The Office. You came for a story of two plants.
I met her on a stupid dating app. We were around the same age, but she was more experienced in the ENM/poly scene. I shared my journey as a former pastor’s wife, still married to the former pastor, and she shared about her job as an ER nurse and living on a farm with her husband who also dated outside their marriage (and liked my profile a number of times since). We engaged in regular conversation as my long-distance male partner at the time excitedly waited but still poked around for details on the sidelines, hoping he would get a threesome out of our connection. She felt slightly hesitant about him because he previously ghosted her, and after he failed to plan a visit to see me, I was happy to focus on her.
It was March 17, 2022. She drove forty-five minutes to meet me at a bar downtown on my birthday. I saw her coming with flowers and a small green leafy thing in a pretty teal mug. Flowers, fine. They’re supposed to die. Gifted plant, no.
WHY?!!!
I tried to unfurrow my brows, a bit embarrassed. For her. This gesture really bothered me.
Why do people vomit their hearts out like that?! Especially in the beginning. Is my online presence, my craftiness with words, so entrancing that people deliver up their hearts as if they're presenting their first charcuterie board post-Master Class with Giada De Laurentiis? (So beautiful. I had an pompous, out-of-shape boss many years ago say her head was too big for her body. Fuck you.) Why can’t we slide into affection and sentimentality as we get to know each other in person through the evening? How do you know that I have the proper faculties (and compassion) to keep your gift, this organic matter, alive?!
Why have we put so much value on the illusion of the online persona?! Get to know me face-to-face to know if I’m worthy of your flesh and foliage!
I think that’s why I easily move toward intimacy so quickly. I’m a sucker for the reality of hot breath, guttural laughter, and knees that bump into each other. And in this world, blatantly advertising false connections, I’m not apologizing.
She was pleasant, and I was eager to get my first female sexual experience in the books. We went to her hipster hotel suite and took our time kissing on the couch, but getting impatient, I confidently stripped down and led her into the bedroom. Our hands and mouths explored each other. I tasted her but wished she was more wet. I wanted a flowing sample. Why was I rushing through this?!
Because I wasn’t as attracted to her as she was to me, and my misplaced enthusiasm and tiredness probably showed. I had to work the following day, so I was craving sleep.
And I kept thinking of that plant in that teal mug. It was too sentimental and too soon for me.
But we did laugh about my male partner as The Bird and the Bee’s “You’re a Cad” played from her Bluetooth speaker. She also took pictures of me, one memorable shot included sitting cross-legged with my nude body on display, coy and comfortable.
Our contact faded, but her plant is still green and sits in my living room. It’s not impressive, just simple leaves. What does this plant symbolize? My mini orchids come with decades of memories… moves and children and celebrating each other’s triumphs and dissecting our burdens, but what about her plant? Why is it even here?
My husband remembers to offer it ice cubes. He’s kept it alive. I would love to say it symbolizes being bold and releasing inhibitions, but honestly, it’s simply decor.
I know, I’m horrible, but I’ve learned a lot through relationships and meet ups since then. My therapist has helped and is still very much helping me navigate intimate connections; it’s been a nasty work-in-progress. But it prompts me to get into “mantra mode” as I stand in front of the mirror (because I’m dramatic) and say:
Be patient with connection.
Be gentle with the unique ways people uncloak their vulnerabilities to you.
Be open to vulnerability yourself, even though you see it as weakness.
And finally…
Plants are good gifts only for those with whom you have traversed great turmoil or kind souls known to be proud plant moms or dads.
The rest of us will be fine with shitty socks.