I Have Giant Spiders For Pets

I have lost my fear of spiders. No big deal. Just now I saw one there on the wood floor of my living room. His wingspan was at least six inches. No big deal. I just upended a glass jar over him, slid a folded utility bill under the jar (what else are those things good for, anyway?) while Mr. Spider danced over it, then took the whole thing to the front door and tossed him unceremoniously into the grass of my tiny front yard.

No big deal.

It’s a far cry from not-so-many years ago.

When I was a kid and there was a spider in my room, usually one that spanned no more than an inch from toe-tip to toe-tip, I’d have to stand in place, feet rooted to the floor and eyes glued on him lest he slip inside my pillowcase or under the bed to crawl out again onto my bare ankles late at night, and scream for someone — anyone — to help me. After an hour or two, they would and I could relax my locked knees and avert my tender eyes while the wee spider was quietly dispatched to the Great Web in the Sky.

As a parent, I became the Spider Dispatcher. It’s a title awarded by default, I think, based on tallness. People over four feet tall = capable of ridding the world from spiders.

No big deal.

Except for my weird Buddhist tendencies which demanded that I eschew squishing and instead embrace relocation. Fine. I learned the Jar Relocation Technique. I learned to avert my eyes. I learned that tall people are supposed to be strong.

No big deal.