DUN DUN DUNNNNN!
Dirt. Yes, dirt. Well, and plants. Specifically transferring plants (and touching their current dirt) into larger pots (filled with more touchable dirt) and hoping they don't DIE.
I've had three plants since I moved into my apartment four and a half years ago; they dwarfed their original containers AGES ago. (Correction: I dehydrated one to death a couple of weeks ago, but bought two to replace it because I'm good at math like that.) I had also purchased larger pots and a HUGE 9-liter bag of potting soil. In hindsight, I also should have purchased gloves, a proper watering can, and probably plant food of some sort. Whatevs: gives me an excuse for another trip to The Big W!
When I got home, I set everything up on layers of newspaper on my dining room table, just like I'd seen my mom do many times before. I stood there with my hands on my hips, giving the whole lot the stink eye, trying to intimidate them into knowing who was boss. Or maybe I was just trying to convince myself that I could do this - who knows? Aaaaand then I walked away. For hours. Because I was intimidated. Again. Still.
Eventually I put on my big girl panties, walked into the kitchen like some kind of rock star goddess, and shocked the hell out of that poor plant when I plunged my (shaking) hands into its dirt.
It wasn't that bad. It was pretty easy. It's been almost a week, and nothing else has died. Huh, imagine that!
Next up: conquering my fear of starting a new plant from a cutting. *gasp!*