WEARING DEAD SPIDER

I’m afraid of spiders, more since a brown recluse tried to take out my husband! But mostly, I’m afraid of spiders because they are creepy, make my skin crawl.

I see a spider. 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, then proceeded to take a chunk out of her. The pain was one thing. The fear was so intense she promptly sold her house and moved to a place where there are no wolf spiders. I’m with her. Such places are becoming hard to find since you find one or another kind of wolf spider all over the country.

Brown-recluse-coin

But today, I am a warrior, a woman of power.

I went to change my clothing. 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?

No, I rallied my womanly strength, balled up my clean pink tee-shirt that I had just taken from my cupboard and squished it. Kept squashing 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.