You may have heard of me. Well, not of me. But of my fear of spiders. It’s legendary.
Have you read about the woman who burned down her house trying to kill a spider?
Yeah, that wasn’t me. But it could have been. And I’m pretty sure that one day it will be.
For now, though, it’s only a dream. More accurately a nightmare. That I had last night. And one that made me totally pissed off at my husband.
I’d accidentally somehow climbed into a blanket that had sides. Bigger than a sleeping bag. More like a constricting duvet cover.
That was weird, but not too bothersome.
Until the spiders.
Since it was a dream – I keep having to remind myself that – the spiders showed up. There were five of them on the floor near me.
They started out looking like super pale daddy long legs. Giant super pale daddy long legs. That were the size of my hand.
The spiders came at me, nice and slow. With that feeling of impending unavoidability. The feeling that you get in a horror movie, when Jason is going to get you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I started screaming for my husband to come save me.
I tried to roll away, but since it was a dream, I rolled back.
The spiders began changing colors.
Their bodies turned pastel like Easter eggs while their legs stayed a spooky translucent white.
I tried to roll away.
I screamed to my husband for help.
I rolled back.
The spiders changed colors again. Brighter. Darker.
They moved more aggressively, more quickly, more pissed off.
I yelled louder.
They moved faster.
I rolled harder.
I yelled and yelled and yelled and yelled.
They ran and ran and ran and ran.
I crushed them.
Landed on top of them.
They stopped moving.
I screamed even more.
And finally. Finally. Finally! My husband showed up.
I was trapped on top of dead spiders. And he had no idea what was wrong.
I woke up.
So freaked. So grossed out. And so, so, so mad. At my husband.