Hunted By Spiders

This isn’t really an everyday unkindness so much as an everyday unpleasantness. I’m pretty sure at some point early on in my life I killed the king of the spiders. They have been hunting me ever since. I was not a natural arachnophobic. I was actually fascinated by spiders as a small child. I excitedly poured over the spider edition of Ranger Rick. I’ve had several people my age tell me that the close-up of the wolf spider’s face turned in that same magazine freaked them out for life. I wasn’t fazed. Didn’t scare me at all. But as the years passed, and the attacks continued, I learned to fear them. They stalk me. I’ve been bitten twice by brown recluse. I visited friends in Vegas and suddenly they had a black widow infestation. I leave and the spiders do to. I stopped getting the morning paper. The frequency of large wolf spiders inside them, no matter how hard I shook the paper, became too much to take before caffeine. I ask you, when you’re showering and you lean your head back to rinse the conditioner out, how often is there a spider lowering itself down inches from your face? This is not an unusual occurrence for me. It’s giant wolf spider season right now in my neck of the woods. My husband and I are averaging about two huge ones a day. Last night’s came out of the bathroom cupboard while I was gaggling. I could go on and on. They’ve been hunting me for at least twenty-five years. If there are any spiders on-line right now, and judging by size of the ones that hunt me there probably are, I extend my apologies for whatever offense I have committed against your kind. Please, at least stop biting me in my sleep.