Spider Guts on my Sock and I’m OK.

I used to be afraid of spiders. I’m not scared now, more unsettled. Several years of living in spider-accessible basement suites have cured me. Mostly. I squeaked and stomped on the one I just found, but I used to hyperventilate, so I think I’m doing OK.

I’m practically cured, compared to the time my brother and I cleaned out my aunt’s understairs shed.

I went along confident that he would take care of the spiders. He thought the same for me. We didn’t know that we had the same fear of spiders.

When we realized that both of us were as scared as each other, we compromised. What it looked like was this:

I heaved a bicycle/garden hose/roll of chicken wire out of the way and darted in with a can of Raid, targeting everything that looked as though it might be a spider. I found myself chanting “Die, die. die!” Then I leapt out of the way as my brother clubbed the area into submission with a baseball bat, also chanting, “Die, die, die!” Then we both ran out of the shed and stood in the backyard, panting.

“You think it’s safe?” we’d ask each other. After a while we would go back in the shed, baseball bat and Raid can at the ready, to do it again.

My squeak-and-stomp routine today is practically medal-worthy, in comparison.

I’m just glad we don’t have scorpions.

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