To bulb or not to bulb?

Shakespeare must’ve been a gardener …

To bulb or not to bulb? That is the question as my cursor hovers over the SUBMIT ORDER button and I ponder whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of clicking now or to take arms against a sea of autumn troubles and just buy some pony packs in the spring.

Why this sudden change in my hue of resolution? I’ve known which bulbs I want since the Tulip Festival back in April. And this year, I shall not suffer the heartache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to by ordering too many and spending too much. No more. Neither shall I order any bulbs smaller than my fist, except one bag of crocus for Ma Bell.

So why then do I lose the name of action? Why am I sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, unable to click the SUBMIT ORDER button?

Perhaps it is the calamity of so long life. All my sins remembered: the bulbs still in bags in February or the ones planted in the family room carpet in December.

Or perhaps the commitment gives me pause. For if I click, then come October I shall bear the whips and scorns of time—unless I unexpectedly shuffle off this mortal coil before the UPS man arrives. And, if that, who then would fardels bear?

O, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished—not to bulb. To rest, perchance to dream. Ay, but there’s the rub. For if I fail to grunt and sweat under a weary life this autumn—if I myself my quietus make with empty beds—then what dreams may come in spring?

And that dread makes me rather bare those ills I have, as conscience does make cowards of us all.

Click! ORDER SUBMITTED