I’m working on some self-analysis today. Trying to figure out how I have become such a fanatic about my crepe myrtles. Although I told myself not to give them a thought until May, this day finds me outside inspecting them for signs of tiny red leaves. And even though leaves are starting to pop out, I can’t be content with that. No, I must go back day after day for more proof.
They’re not my only plants, but they’re the only ones I go a bit nuts over. Maybe it’s because I have thirty-nine of them. Or because with a number like that, I had to buy them as little babies, so I’ve got some bizarre attachment to them. Perhaps I’m just determined to be proven right… that ordering all white ones for my landscaping theme, and bringing them in from Florida wasn’t a foolish idea.
It’s been torture seeing them through drought and intense freeze and that close call with poison. Some haven’t made it, and replacements were ordered. This is year four. I have high hopes.
I’ve concluded that it’s just fun to be fanatical about something silly once in awhile. We do it over sports to shoes to haircuts, and everything in between. So… crepe myrtles are my obsession. What’s yours?