I went to the gym this morning, as I do most days, all part of the continued effort to recover my 25 year old derriere. After depositing Sophie at child care, I headed for the locker room. I dropped my bag off in one of the lockers and walked toward the long mirror that runs along the wall across from them.
As I approached the mirror, I adjusted my iPhone armband and reached up to tighten my ponytail. Now just a few feet from the mirror, I noticed a small black spot on my neck. Peering closer, I noticed that the spot was MOVING. I reached up and brushed the spot, looking at my hand as I did. Which was when I realized that the spot was actually a tiny spider and quickasaflash I whipped my hand out with a scream, flinging that spider off into locker room oblivion.
With the threat now gone, I chuckled at my reaction and gave thanks that I was alone in the room. I'm not especially freaked out by spiders. In fact, I generally like that they eat all of the other little creepy crawlies that I really don't like. I am not a fan of having them ON MY BODY, but barring that, I'm a pacifist. Live and let live, I say.
But then the itching began.
A spot on my arm. Another on my leg. On my head. My chest. My skin was crawling like a meth addict coming off the crank.
Now, I couldn't actually see any other spiders, but I am fairly certain that hundreds of the little bastards were working their way up my body. My best guess is that they were hatched from an egg sac in my belly button and they were on a mission towards my brain where they planned to burrow in and take over my body. I was ground zero for a massive spider conspiracy to take over the world.
Damn my innie genes. If only I had an outie, the rise of our arachnid overlords could have been averted.