I’m afraid of spiders. Not because they are dangerous, though some are. Not because of the potential toxicity. I’m afraid of spiders because they are creepy, make my skin crawl, and make me scream like a little girl.
EEK, I shriek and jump straight out of my chair with my heart pounding like a trip hammer. The loudness of my EEK and the hysterical pounding in my chest is in direct proportion to the blackness and largeness of the spider. Bigger is scarier. Big, black and hairy might actually kill me from sheer panic and irrational terror.
A friend of mine was attacked by a wolf spider while sun bathing on her patio in Arizona. The thing was the size of a dessert plate. It landed on her breast and proceeded to take a chunk out of her. The pain was minor compared to the fear. Her terror was so intense she sold her house and moved to a place where there are no wolf spiders.
I’m with her.
But today, I am a warrior. I am a woman of power and pride.
I went into my bedroom to change my clothing this afternoon. There, in the middle of my white blanketed bed was a medium-sized black garden spider. Did I scream in panic? Did I even go EEK?
I rallied my womanly strength, balled up my clean pink tee-shirt I had just taken from my cupboard and squished it. Kept at it until it was nothing but a black smear of used-to-be-a-spider. Then, I put the tee-shirt on.
I went and told my husband. He gave me a proud thumb’s up.
I wear dead spider proudly. I am woman. Hear me roar.