I only have one explanation for my increasing acceptance of fake foliage into my life: I like it.
I do semi-appreciate a beautiful bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. I definitely enjoy my strolls through the thriving garden sections at the home stores.
But, I’m not someone who lives close to a poetic market where fresh blossoms can be purchased daily, brought home and trimmed for display. Nor do I have time for such commitment either.
And, while flowers smell overwhelmingly charmed at first, I find their chopped anatomies get stinky fast. Water changes don’t help. I have a special sense for their slow deaths. I sniff out their fading life and it makes me nauseous.
I am also unintentionally and uncharacteristically cruel with live plants. I’ve had some true survivors but even when I give them attention, food, and water (maybe too much), they shrivel up and leave me.
My cats and dogs live long, harmonious lives. But don’t torture a poor plant by bringing it to my house, nor drop off a bouquet because I’ll smile then drop it out back on the porch after a day. I can smell its darkness ensuing.
So I’ve gone fake, and I like it.