Afew days before Halloween, I was talking to my mother on the phone when I heard rustling coming from the window. I tried pulling up the mini-blind, but it got stuck. The rustling got louder. I pulled the blind away from the wall a little.
That's when I saw it: A black wing wrapped itself around from behind the blind. There was a bat in my tiny little cramped apartment. I gasped and shrieked, walking backwards, tripping over shoes and tables, spitting out a line of curse words that probably deafened my mother as well as the poor bat. I ran out of my apartment and slammed the door. I was freaked.
Trying to gather myself, I called maintenance at my rental company and asked if they could help.
\Nope. Not an emergency.""
""It's only 6:00. Please,"" I said, almost crying. ""I don't know what to do.""
""Can't help you."" This, coming from the same rental company who refuses to put a screen on my window, which is probably how the effing thing squeezed through in the first place.
I then proceeded to call the fire department, 911 (I know - awful. But I was terrified), and my parents again. Nobody could help me. So what did I do? I, who was shortstop for the all-district softball champs in junior high? I, who literally went nine rounds with the principal of my high school over my attempted demonstration of how to put a condom on a banana? I, who suffered 2nd degree burns all over my left hand, parts of my skin literally falling off, without any pain medication whatsoever? What did I do, you ask? I cried'and called the first guy friend I could think of.
I was disgusted with myself.
But hey, I was petrified. Luckily, my friend Mike was over at Cafe Assisi, and came right over. And Dave in 309 had a net. So with Dave's net, Mike went in, caught the bat, and let it out the window. The whole thing took about 90 seconds. By this time, the bone-rattling fear had subsided - but my shame was more conspicuous than Britney Spears in a star-spangled bikini carrying a boa constrictor up Bascom Hill. I now felt even worse.
The fact that I was so hysterical bothered me a great deal. I consider myself a staunch card-carrying feminist, and here I was, running to the first Y chromosome I could find at the sight of a little insect-eating mammal. I lift weights regularly at the SERF, I used to kick the crap out of my ex-boyfriend at leg wrestling, and I outweigh Mike by probably at least 30 pounds (see my previous column re: fatness). And interestingly enough, as a TA for the Human Sexuality course here on campus, I know where the word hysterical comes from:
According to http://www.wordorigins.org, the etymology of hysteria is ""The root hyster, which comes from the Greek word for womb. So, the psychological disturbance termed hysteria was originally believed to be a disease of women and resulted from some disturbance in the uterus. Its origin is in the late 17th century. Similarly, a hysterectomy, first appearing in English in the mid-19th century, is the removal of the womb, or uterus."" So now, not only was my hysteria cheesy and stereotypical, but also typical and historically-based. Oh, geez. The feminists would surely be asking for their card back any minute now.
But then I thought for a minute. I was born in Los Angeles, a major urban hub, and spent most of my life in Milwaukee, a mini-urban hub. I've gone camping exactly once, with the Girl Scouts in the fourth grade. Would Hillary Clinton have caught that bat? Hell yeah. She'd have contained it and set it free in no time. Sojourner Truth? Yep. Eleanor Roosevelt? Yes, ma'am. Would Michael Jackson? Not so much. Woody Allen? Probably not. James Van Der Beek? (I actually have no idea about him. I just like picking on ""The Beek"").
My point is, when I just stopped and pondered it for a while, I realized that I was just a person who needed help'the same person who survived the 2nd degree burns; the same person who made my ex-boyfriend pull a muscle in his thigh from my awesome strength; the same person who routinely squashes spiders and centipedes with my bare hands if need be.
So thank you Mike. And thank you Dave in 309. Thank you for helping me, not because I have a uterus and can't handle scary things, but because I'm a human being with quirks and idiosyncrasies, and sometimes we all need a little help. And hey, let me know if you ever need a centipede squashed for you.
