Including the huntsman currently living in my car, occasionally creeping across my windscreen while I’m driving, spiders are generally known to be assholes.
Arachnophobia is the scientific name given to the fear of spiders, but this is simply a euphemism for the highly logical and well-grounded revulsion caused in humans by these disgusting creatures.
Over the years they have had a bad rap because of their poisonous tendencies, but they also rate as the ugliest beings that Mother Nature has produced. (And frankly, I don’t know why she bothered.) Yes, they are part of the ecosystem and play a vital role in the delicate balance of the terrestrial biomes which are currently under threat. And they eat flies. Big whoop.
My problem with spiders is not just aesthetic. It’s the fear they engender. The all-consuming, irrational fear of the little-tiny-thing that gets magnified 100-fold. The fear of fear itself. It’s the fear of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog and how it can stifle progress.
I can happily jump on a plane and travel thousands of kilometers through the air without giving it a second thought; I can drive a motor vehicle in heavy traffic safely twice a day without being amazed that I’m not crushed by a semi-trailer along the way; yet a small arachnid can trigger an instant fit of hysteria.
The real problem is the legs. It’s the hairy long legs that move in such an uncoordinated way. You don’t know where they’re going. You don’t know. They’re long, they’re agile, and their breadth can fit around your arm or leg quite effectively. Have I ever had one crawl on my arm or leg? No. But that’s not the point. It’s the fear.
Have I mentioned that I left the window open over night the other night and have no idea if the huntsman is now on the inside of my car and could strike at any time? That’s called living on the edge.
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