I first realised I might have a problem on a bright Monday morning just as I was about to hit send on a long and emotional message to my boss. A message which could have potentially ended my career.
In the text, I had painstakingly explained to my manager that I would be late to our morning story meeting, due to the fact that a treasured and valued member of my household required urgent medical attention.
This, of course, would have been a perfectly acceptable message to send, one that only a boss with a heart made out of overly stale bagels would have pushed back on, except for the small yet important fact that no other humans live in my home. And the only pet that I have to speak of is a small yet pushy spider who sometimes likes to hang out in my shower.
In this case, I had awoken on Monday morning to find my pride and joy, my glorious Devil’s Ivy that drapes luxuriously from atop my highest bookcase wilting, dry and closing in on an agonising death.
I immediately started Googling “emergency plant hospitals in Sydney” before quickly discovering that there’s no such place in existence (although there really should be, someone get onto that) while also typing out the message that would have doubled as my resignation letter when I caught sight of myself in a mirror and realised for the first time the full extent of my crazy.
There I was sitting in my living room, a place that could easily double as the set of Little Shop of Horrors thanks to the fact that I have covered every available surface with towers of green leafy things, having a panic attack over a plant.