I am scared of spiders. And though it is -- supposedly -- a rather mild case of arachnophobia, at one time I was sure that spiders somehow sensed this fear and showed up just to torment me. I was just another Little Miss Muffet, oblivious to the plotting of an eight-legged creature waiting for its chance to descend: my scream, its satisfied grin.
Of course, I suppose I'm only flattering myself to think that a spider cares that much about me. But I can't help but give them a personality, which is usually made up of adjectives like "scheming" and "malicious" and "clever." I am not alone either. Fear of spiders is one of the most common phobias of animals.
There are a lot of us out there who freeze when the black starburst shape of an arachnid suddenly blocks the path, whose hearts start palpitating a little faster than they should. The feeling of a stray cobweb leaves our skin crawling, and the sudden movement of one coming at us is enough to propel us to tabletops, wielding a shoe in each hand. Thank goodness they don't have wings!
One of my most revealing moments came when I was living in Kitts Hill. I stepped out onto my back porch one day only to find a monstrous fat spider directly in front of my face. The crafty thing had spun an elaborate web above the steps leading into the yard. I swallowed hard and retreated -- my eyes never breaking contact with the unwanted guest -- back into the house.
What could I do? What could I do? The thought of hitting it with anything made me nauseated. That would only connect me to it. And I didn't care how long the broom was, it would still be me on one end and the terrifying mother of all other Kitts Hill spiders on the other. I decided to spray it with poison instead.
Just a week or so earlier, I had dealt with a wasp nest in my bedroom -- which, by the way, I handled with relative nonchalance. The spray I had could go 20 feet, or something like that. It was the super-soaker of bug killer.
After a short pep talk to myself, I stepped out on the porch. Hasta la vista, baby. I sprayed the spider off and the web off, probably using up most of the contents in the process. But satisfied that I was now able to come and go out the back as I pleased, I left to eat at my grandparents.
When I came back, the seemingly invincible spider was back in the center of a clone web in the same spot as if nothing had happened. I was in awe. I stopped using the back door for quite awhile after that.
I must admit though, that I find them quite fascinating as well -- so long as I feel safe and separate. In Mexico, we discovered a tarantula in the grass at the public pool. Of course, I fled to the picnic table, feet far from the ground, but it was mesmerizing to watch the hairy spider slowly picking up one leg and then the other and then the other and moving through the grass like an animal.
I've also had some moments when I forget that I'm afraid when I watch them building the intricate shapes of a web. Such a slow and captivating process.
Every spring, I have to suck it up and come to terms with this phobia. I am sure I'll still have my fair share of spider stories this year, but maybe one day I'll look one straight into its eight eyes and say, "You don't scare me." Until then, I will try to appreciate them from afar, very afar.
Heidi Evans is a freelance writer who lives and writes in Lawrence County, Ohio. She shares her travels around Ohio and other tales each week in the Lawrence Herald and can be reached at haevans8@yahoo.com.
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