I have to keep telling myself that I am good at lots of things. There are few things that scare me.
Snakes slithering? Well, I don’t love them, but they are fine.
Sharks? Earthquakes? Things that go bump in the night? No biggie.
That’s my thing.
I am petrified of spiders. I hate their tendency to skitter. I hate all those legs and the way they move and how they are always brown or black and the way they can just sit there, staring at you.
I can mostly manage spiders outside. I don’t like them, but there are places that we can both go to get away from each other, and hey they have to live somewhere (I suppose. I’m still not firm about their right to exist at all) and they eat mosquitoes and anything that eats a mosquito must have some benefit. I cannot handle them indoors. I cannot manage that. It’s a bridge too far and a chasm too deep.
So, yesterday, when I was sitting quietly, peacefully even on my couch, sipping my coffee, with pumpkin bread baking in the oven and Sunday dinner underway, reading a theology book, I was unprepared.
It was huge* and it was booking along. That spider had menace and aggression written in it’s beady little eyes – all eight of them. It was heading right at me – while I was sitting on the couch.
And that’s why, if you were wondering, I was suddenly standing up, on my couch, with my book in hand, screaming for Mr. Spit.
And that’s why I leapt off the couch and was mostly across the living room without my feet ever touching the ground when he came in the room. And that’s why I beat a strategic retreat to the front porch while he moved the couch to kill the spider that had been so startled by my shrieking that he hid under the couch.
That’s why I was *that* woman.