For my birthday (quite some time ago) I was given the gift of 100 gladiola bulbs. Personally, I would have loved to receive the bulbs and the bulb planter, but alas, not the case. So, they sat on my desk and tortured me for a very long time.
In fact, I have kvetched and worried over them so that my bff final felt obliged to tell me to plant the damn things or throw them out, but for heaven's sake, stop talking about them.
So, today after administering an academic science test for a competition (painfully boring), I trotted myself home and planted the bulbs. . . in the backyard . . . where the idiot dogs hang out. Sure, the odds aren't good, but it was the only place I could find. On the upside, I did put up a cute little wooden fence and a couple of planters to guard the area.
We'll see what happens. Not to beat a dead horse, but dating is a lot like this. Work with me here. I planted 100 bulbs. Everyone knows all 100 gladiolas are not going to bloom. Some of them will not bloom at all. Nothing. ever.
Some of them may not bloom at first, but eventually something will pop up. Or, even more likely, they will bloom the first time, but never again.
Still others will bloom and look beautiful. I will be pleased that I put in the effort to plant them, fertilize them and care for them.
But right now as I stare at a large area of just dirt . . . and I contemplate the blister on my hand and the sore muscles in my back from turning the earth. . . and I think about the odds of the damn things blooming. . . I wonder if it is really worth the effort.
Oh, and I'm supposed to meet a new guy for coffee or something tomorrow. . . update to come.
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