Cactus cardigan: Collectif X, Modcloth
Cacti blouse: Amazon
Floral surplice top: Flying Tomato, Marshalls
Arid Elegance Necklaces
Susan Green is a cool customer. She wears only black and gray, she likes rules, she collects cacti, and she never lets anything get in her way -- or, to use Mindy Kaling's parlance, she's a very busy woman who never has time for fun. So, she's a classic rom com heroine. And Sarah Haywood's The Cactus, which is a selection of Reese Witherspoon's book club, is the story of how this chick gets, well, lit. Metaphorically. Although there is a fair bit of wine drinking.
Forty-five-year-old Susan informs us, in her no-frills, straightforward way, that her mother has just passed away and that she's facing an unplanned pregnancy. The father is a like-minded, no-nonsense professional with whom she had an "arrangement." So, a boyfriend without the hassle -- or romance. She also has a ne'er do well younger brother who seems intent on ruining her life by swindling her out of her inheritance. But he also happens to have this friend . . .
Ah yes, the friend. The male friend who's appealing and funny and kind despite being a borderline ne'er do well too. In this instance, he's Rob, the professional gardener, and his oat sowing days are behind him. Now he's ready to put down roots, becoming a constant if held-at-arms-length fixture in Susan's life. I know what you're thinking: we've seen this before! Susan's the prickly, tough-skinned succulent, and Rob is the loosey-goosey horticulturist with the patience to penetrate her guarded layers. Which makes this book sound like a bodice ripper and/or a Hallmark mush fest, but it's neither. For one thing, there is zero sex, not even a kiss. And the tiny bit of emotion that eventually does eke out is hard-won and all the sweeter for it.
Ah yes, the friend. The male friend who's appealing and funny and kind despite being a borderline ne'er do well too. In this instance, he's Rob, the professional gardener, and his oat sowing days are behind him. Now he's ready to put down roots, becoming a constant if held-at-arms-length fixture in Susan's life. I know what you're thinking: we've seen this before! Susan's the prickly, tough-skinned succulent, and Rob is the loosey-goosey horticulturist with the patience to penetrate her guarded layers. Which makes this book sound like a bodice ripper and/or a Hallmark mush fest, but it's neither. For one thing, there is zero sex, not even a kiss. And the tiny bit of emotion that eventually does eke out is hard-won and all the sweeter for it.
The thing about Susan is, she's the opposite of America's sweetheart (and not just because she's British) and of what the world expects women to be. Instead of being warm and selfless, she's self-contained and standoffish, like one of those HBO antiheroes that it's hard to like. That said, her inner sanctum can be an uncomfortable place. She's so rigid that she sometimes seems inhuman, and her lack of self awareness can be as annoying as it is gently funny. Here are a couple of glimpses into her head:
"It could simply be, however, that I was aware from an early age that a close relationship with a boy or man -- or indeed anyone -- would undermine my freedom, dilute my individualism, take up precious time and cause the unnecessary expenditure of emotional energy. Looked at logically like that, it's astonishing that any rational person would want to engage in intimate relationships." (195-196)
"As you're aware, I've always been the author of my own destiny. We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman. What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable." (205)
From Susan's point of view, she's protecting herself. Why throw caution to the wind in an unstable world when you can craft your own custom, temperature-controlled solarium full of indestructible, botanical wonders? Yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, I can't help but like her. Especially when she shares some story from her past that's so sad you want to be that one kid she can turn to when she's alone on the playground. And that's what keeps the reader -- and, I imagine Rob -- interested. Speaking of which, this is what he has to say:
"He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren't repotted. And light, too, he said -- they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day. I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled. I've managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else's interference. Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that's a detail." (217)
Rob is saying that Susan's doing a mostly fine job with her cacti -- but that they'd be better off with some changes. Predictably, Susan bristles, going as far as to say so what if her plants have never bloomed? But she knows, deep down, that Rob's right. Because although green (and indeed Green) can symbolize a tough as nails cactus, it can also mean inexperience and vulnerability. As accomplished as Susan is in the rest of her life, she's awkward when it comes to people. Which is mostly fine; we don't all have to be social butterflies! Still, in (tentatively) accepting Rob's friendship and, yes, in having a baby, she discovers that sometimes -- even for a cactus -- companionship can be nice.
The Cactus is a lovely story, a kind of middle-aged coming-of-age. Also, it's refreshing to read about a suitor who's not, even once, the proverbial prick.
Cactus humor, you never let me d(r)own.
From Susan's point of view, she's protecting herself. Why throw caution to the wind in an unstable world when you can craft your own custom, temperature-controlled solarium full of indestructible, botanical wonders? Yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, I can't help but like her. Especially when she shares some story from her past that's so sad you want to be that one kid she can turn to when she's alone on the playground. And that's what keeps the reader -- and, I imagine Rob -- interested. Speaking of which, this is what he has to say:
"He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren't repotted. And light, too, he said -- they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day. I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled. I've managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else's interference. Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that's a detail." (217)
Rob is saying that Susan's doing a mostly fine job with her cacti -- but that they'd be better off with some changes. Predictably, Susan bristles, going as far as to say so what if her plants have never bloomed? But she knows, deep down, that Rob's right. Because although green (and indeed Green) can symbolize a tough as nails cactus, it can also mean inexperience and vulnerability. As accomplished as Susan is in the rest of her life, she's awkward when it comes to people. Which is mostly fine; we don't all have to be social butterflies! Still, in (tentatively) accepting Rob's friendship and, yes, in having a baby, she discovers that sometimes -- even for a cactus -- companionship can be nice.
The Cactus is a lovely story, a kind of middle-aged coming-of-age. Also, it's refreshing to read about a suitor who's not, even once, the proverbial prick.
Cactus humor, you never let me d(r)own.
