Men Are Like Tomato Plants
I have killed three tomato plants and dated four unsuitable men. This makes me overqualified to discuss both.
People will tell you tomatoes are easy.
These people are liars.
They say all a tomato plant needs is sunlight, water and a little attention. Men say similar things about themselves.
“I’m easy-going.”
No, you're not, Graham. You once refused to speak to me for two days because I moved your mug.
The first tomato plant I owned was called Bernard. I don't normally name vegetables, but Bernard had presence. He stood proudly on my kitchen windowsill, green and hopeful, like a man on a dating profile photographed beside somebody else's sports car.
I watered him.
I spoke to him.
I moved him twice a day so he could enjoy the best of the sunlight.
Bernard died.
My neighbour said I had overwatered him.
This seemed ungrateful.
The second tomato plant was given to me by a woman called Linda, who said, “You can't kill this one.”
Linda and I no longer speak.
It isn't because of the tomato plant, but I imagine it contributed.
By the time I acquired my third, I had learnt an important lesson: sometimes the more attention you give something, the more determined it becomes to collapse dramatically in your kitchen.
This also applies to men.
My second unsuitable man once told me he needed space.
So I gave him space.
Three days later, he asked why I had gone quiet.
This is the romantic equivalent of placing a tomato plant in direct sunlight and having it complain about the weather.
The problem is that women of my generation were taught to nurture things.
Plants. Men. Children. Neighbours. Friendships. Other people's emotional crises in supermarket car parks.
We see something drooping and immediately fetch water.
Sometimes, ladies, the thing is not thirsty.
Sometimes it is simply badly rooted.
I know this now.
I am fifty years old and the proud owner of one plastic cactus.
It has never disappointed me.
It asks nothing.
It requires no emotional reassurance.
And, most importantly, it has never sent me a message at eleven forty-seven at night saying:
You up?
My advice is simple.
If a man tells you he is easy-going, ask to see his mug cupboard.
If a tomato plant begins to wilt, check the soil before drowning it in affection.
And if either one requires you to rotate yourself twice a day just to keep it facing the light—
move the bloody pot.
— Eleanor Hart
