The Ickiness Factor

This morning, I allowed a spider free reign over my home. Shhh...don't tell my family.

Those of you who read this blog regularly may know that I am not a fan of bugs. We have an equitable distribution of critter duties in my house. I handle anything furry. Ruanita handles anything buggy. We share bird duties. Over the course of our many, many years together, we have run into mice, numerous bugs, and the occasional dead bird that needs disposing. I am, in no uncertain terms, NOT in charge of bugs.

This morning, as I was getting out of the shower, I noticed something moving on the bathroom wall. I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't make out the shape. Only that something was moving. Since it was 6:00 in the morning and I had consumed neither liquor nor illicit drugs (yet), I assumed that it was not the bathroom tile that was moving. I panicked momentarily, and then got my wits about me enough to grab my glasses. Standing buck naked and dripping wet in the bathroom, I peered closely at the moving object. It was a spider. A rather large spider. Not tarantula large, but definitely big enough to make me uncomfortable. I do not like bugs. (For those nit-picky people among you, I realize that a spider is not technically a “bug.” However, I am not a fan of arachnids either. Nor arthropods. Nor crustaceans. Nor fossilized trilobites, for that matter. Even gorgeous brightly-colored butterflies simply freak me out. For ease of purpose, I will refer to all of these classifications in this blog as “nasty bugs.”)

Ruanita was upstairs sleeping. I debated calling her down to perform her wifely bug-killing duties. However, upon further consideration, I concluded that she would not appreciate being roused from bed a half hour before she had to get up. Instead, I grabbed a huge wad of toilet paper. I stood with the toilet paper dangling above the spider—its shadow confusing the creepy creature. I couldn't do it. I simply do not have it in me to dispose of nasty bugs. There is something about the crunching noise they make when you squish them. Those damn exoskeletons possess an ickiness factor that I simply can't get past. I have been known, when feeling bold, to grab a bug and cradle it gently in tissue until I make my way to the toilet to toss it in and quickly flush it away. I don't know if drowning a bug is more humane than crushing it. The ickiness factor is certainly diminished in a flushing homicide.

This morning, though I was standing right next to the toilet, I couldn't find the resolve within myself to squish or flush the spider. It was early. I was naked. I was feeling neither bold nor heroic. I pictured the spider—did I mention that it was pretty dang large?—finding its way out of the tissue in the millisecond it took me to toss it in the toilet. I imagined it climbing up my arm. Onto my shoulder. Into my hair. I imagined myself screaming like a little girl and running—naked and dripping wet—out my front door in a fit of pure terror.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my clothes, rushed into Sophie's room where my baby girl was sleeping, closed the door for fear that the spider was chasing me, and got dressed in the pitch blackness of the early morn. I left the spider. I surrendered my bathroom to the tiny creature.

As I type this—safely ensconced in my cubicle at work—I imagine the spider is making itself at home in my house. Perhaps inviting friends over for a party. Maybe getting its freak on. Having numerous tiny spider babies in the nooks and crannies of my happy home. I imagine an invasion in imminent. All because I did not have the nerve to crush a spider.

I may just have to move.