I officially have arthritis: I tried gardening.
This past weekend I underwent an age-old tradition for people with arthritis: I tried gardening. To my own astonishment, 26 years of life, and never once gardened. Hard to believe, I have spent over a decade railing against people who lump us arthritics in the category of “people who garden; or can’t garden because of their arthritis”. And here I was, potting and planting and watering and pruning. On my roof. Hey, it may not exactly be the most natural place to garden, but it’s a good start, especially in New York City.
Here’s how it ended: after two hours of shlepping, plotting, potting and planting, we ended up with 10 beautiful plants for the windowsill in the apartment. Honestly, it was about the hardest work I’ve done in a long time, and I still feel it. I felt kind of stupid at the thought of being such a beginner, but also at how anti-gardening I’ve always been. It’s as though I never wanted to be categorized in the same group as my grandmother (and her vast collection of ferns) just because I had arthritis. And there I was, though achy then and sore now, with two green thumbs firmly planted up my. Well, you know the rest.