Warning: This post is about the spawn of Satan. It is about evil incarnate. Just accept it.
Last week, my close to ideal working conditions took a concerning twist.
One of my coworkers found a large spider under his desk. It freaked me out, but I was able to maintain a modicum of composure. I use the word “modicum” advisedly. Secretly, I was ready to run for higher ground. But due to imminent teasing from fellow employees, I sucked it up. Sort of. They all got a pretty clear picture that spiders are the proverbial chink in my otherwise rock-solid armor.
I’ve written concerning my paralyzing fear of these vile creatures before, but my history with them is ongoing, and thus post-worthy. Or not. Either way the writing does me good.
The offending arachnid was disposed of and I was at peace for the moment. But only after I’d moved my personal belongings off the floor and checked my own workspace. I told myself it was a glitch, a hole in the wall of the corner office. I was safe from eight-legged intruders.
Today, ugh. Hanging out, waiting for pizza, and another coworker, one who works a scant ten feet from my desk, comes out of his office bearing a small box containing a spider larger than the last one. This one was big enough to produce its own weather system. It was black, gnarly, and repulsive.
To his credit and my chagrin, he took the box outside and freed said arachnid. It was still in the world. Did he put it on my car? Would it show up with friends later? Karma be damned. Kill the thing and kill it good.
During the melee, I stood at the ready with a can of bug spray and turned into a facsimile of myself, only with less control. My heart raced, nostrils flared, and I threatened poison to the face of anyone who dared approach me with the box. They laughed, they thought it was funny. I was in survival mode.
The short story? My fate is sealed. I’ve now divulged my greatest fear to snarcastic fellow employees looking to see me squirm, and perform like I did today–out of reckless fear.
My pleas for fumigation fell on a boss’s deaf ears. After all, he’s from Texas where they grow BIG spiders.. not the relatively wee one we found here.
Here’s what I’ll do: Be aware of my surroundings, be ready to spray poison, and be thankful they’re not scorpions–the only thing I can think of worse than spiders. Rodents? Bring ‘em on. Roaches? Pshhh. Even tiny spiders I can dispose of on my own.
The big ones can burn in hell, which, I suppose, is where they came from in the first place.
Meanwhile, my watch is vigilant, the spray can at my side, and I’m practicing how to be cool.
Gahhh. I’m a dead woman.