Unidentified Crawling Object

There is something about a spider being on your person that bypasses all rational thought and sends you straight into survival mode. Dignity disappears. Logic disappears. You become a flailing, self-inflicted injury waiting to happen.

I once had a spider crawl across my face while I was drifting off to sleep. My response was immediate and violent. I slapped my own cheek so hard I bruised it. Not a gentle swat, a full-force assault. I beat myself up thoroughly!

The spider landed on the bedspread. I killed it with the determination of someone settling a personal grievance. Victory was mine and I had the bruises to prove it.

I considered that an acceptable outcome.

Awhile back, on a warm, clear summer afternoon around 4:00pm, I was headed out to pick up Em, my youngest, from the mall. Several people, including me, had already gone in and out of the house multiple times that day. Under normal circumstances, I check for spider webs before stepping out. I watch for that telltale sheen and clear it with our specially designated web-destroyer, which was, in reality, just a really cool piece of driftwood we found at the beach one day.

Given the lateness of the day and recent foot traffic, I skipped spider patrol.

This was a mistake.

As I walked out the front door, I walked directly into a web. Not a full web, just a single line across the face, which is somehow worse because you immediately know what just happened but have no idea where the spider is.

I did not panic. Not yet. I brushed at my face, got the willies, and continued to the car. I put on my sunglasses and texted Em that I was on my way.

Then I felt something on top of my head.

At first, I assumed it was the breeze moving my hair; a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Then I felt the body.

I lost my mind.

Thank goodness I was still in the driveway. Had I been driving, this story would have ended very differently and possibly involved a police report or an obituary.

I began violently pulling at my hair, convinced the spider was tangled in it and planning a long-term stay. I thrashed around in the driver's seat like someone attempting to remove an invisible hat.

No longer feeling it but completely uncertain where it had gone, I bolted back into the house and ran to the bathroom. I inspected my shirt. Front. Back. Sleeves. Collar. I grabbed my brush and attacked my hair like I was sanding furniture.

No spider... which did not mean no spider.

Was it still in the car? Had it fallen down my shirt? Was it now setting up residence in my hair? I called for backup.

Kate, my oldest, performed a thorough spider check, with me spinning slowly while she assured me she didn’t see anything.

That should have reassured me; it did not.

I headed back out to the car, still shaken. The adrenaline had triggered hiccups. I was coughing, hiccupping, and trying to drive at the same time; this felt medically questionable.

By the time I reached the mall, my eyes were watering and I looked like I had been crying.

Em got in the car and immediately asked what was wrong.

“No, I’m fine,” I told her. “There was a spider in my hair. I scared myself so badly I gave myself hiccups, my head hurts from pulling my hair, and by the way… we never found him. You might want to check your seat.”

To this day, there is a small possibility that he is still out there… waiting… planning.

Spider patrol is now non-negotiable. I don't still have the stick, but I have never once skipped the check since.