I don’t like bugs. But there’s just something about spiders that give me an extra dose of the willies. Logically I know that there’s a place for them on this earth. My parents are constantly preaching to me, as I’m shrieking down the house, that blah, blah, food chain, blah, blah, ecosystem, blah. But that is no comfort when I’m paralyzed by fear at a spider on the wall.
The worst arachnid, in my opinion, has to be the shower spider. There is nothing worse than disrobing in the morning, when you’re still half asleep, and draw back the shower curtain to find one (or more!) of the little vermin waiting for you in the shower. My coworker says car spiders are worse, but I maintain that at least in the car, you have a layer of protection between you and the spider… your clothes. Getting ready to step into the shower? No such protection. I always have to put on a towel before attempting to kill it, because I’m always afraid it’ll jump at me and then it will be on my skin. Ewwww.
Though a case can be made for the above-the-bed spider being the worst. You know you have to kill it because it might fall into your bed. But if you try to swat it, you might kill it, but it’ll still fall into your bed. However, I am too short to be able to reach it with a tissue, even standing on said bed. So swatting is the only option, followed by an hours-long search to either find its corpse or kill the survivor.
I confronted one of the dreaded shower spiders the other morning, and in my zeal to kill it, I apparently made too much noise. My dad came up to make sure I was OK. Apparently, it sounded like I had fallen in the shower. No, Dad. I’m OK. Just spider-killin’.