I want to believe I am a gardener.

But my flower-patterned rubber boots and puncture-proof gloves were no match for the invasion of thorns and dandelions and other unnamed monstrous offenders. The weeds have taken over.

The few vegetables that found room to grow were tiny and bug-eaten. Only the potatoes have been victorious. This gardening is not for me.

I called my mother. She said I cannot be a gardener and a beach-goer.

I choose the beach.