Around 6:15 this morning, I stirred in a state of half sleep and wake. I felt a small tickle on my right wrist, and nonchalantly brushed it with my left, middle finger. My fingertip touched a fuzzy, dime-sized spider which sent my body into an exorcism-like series of convulsions. I flicked the spider into the darkness of the bed, and continued to flop in a panic. I did not scream, but could only think of my last post regarding the Mirkwood spiders--and realizing that they are smarter than we think. They found me.
I threw the covers off, searching the sheets frantically, and then ran my hands over my body in an attempt to find the small beast. I wondered how many nights have been spent with me fast asleep while small spiders crawl on my wrist, unnoticed? There is the supposed tale that we swallow "x" amounts of spiders every year while sleeping, and I never believed it until now. I eerily spoke aloud, "My body is not my own".
Dramatic, yes? Necessary? I think so.
I grew up watching my beloved VHS of "Charlotte's Web", crying at the end of the movie when Charlotte died after giving birth to her offspring. Now, being more educated on spider-culture, I know that her babies most likely ate her. Female spiders will often die after birth and become a sacrificial meal to their children. The sweet, endearing Charlotte was nourishment to her creepy chorus of little babies. The Christ figure of the barnyard.
I currently sit in my over-sized Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, eating my $5.99 Chinese takeout. I treasure every bite, acknowledging the inevitable fact that the arachnids are turning on me, one by one.