Before Bert and Patty moved to Georgia, they would travel during the summer and have me move their plants when a hurricane loomed. My mother was the proud parent of a six foot tall cactus which resided in a comparatively tiny clay pot. The very first summer they were gone, we got hit about a week after they’d left. Because I’m me, I waited until the hurricane was about 20 minutes away before pulling everything in from the patio; saving my brother cactus for last. I drank a couple beers to psych myself up.
“Dude. You got this. Lift with your back. No, wait. Your legs. Lift with your legs.”
Having not really thought through the logistics of carrying a six foot cactus in a tiny pot for twenty feet and up two steps, I, naturally, tried to lift the pot all the way to chest-level. This was not a good idea. I had it about a foot off the ground when the cactus kind of got away from me. In a split second, I had to make a decision: let it hit the floor or take it in the face.
I chose to take it in the face.
By some miracle, the damn thing righted itself and I made it inside.
(In case you were wondering, taking it in the face was, in retrospect, a terrible idea. If you are ever, EVER forced to decide between dropping your mother’s plant and taking a cactus in the face, drop the plant. Every time.)
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