I didn't wake up intending to fight. Some warriors say it is in their blood, but none want it in their cup of morning coffee.
I work at a small restaurant, and I begin each morning by cleaning the chairs in the dining room. As I started scrubbing, I saw a tiny rival inching toward me. I was in a good mood, so I let him pass by unscathed. But little did I know he was only a foretaste of what was to come.
The next was a sneak attack. I was wiping the windows and one crept out of my rag. I gave my war cry and hurled my foe to the ground. Now, witnesses may say my war cry sounds a bit like a high-pitched whimper and is accompanied by a quivering dance. But this really just lulls my enemy into a false sense of security. This is the mind of the warrior.
I tried to shake off the battle. Where were all these enemies coming from? I was unnerved by the thought of all these adversaries. But I had to get back to my work.
I turned to find yet another dangling in front of my face. I swiped him out of the way. I had had enough of these attacks and threw him to the ground. As I crunched him with my foot I went back to my cleaning.
But, lo and behold, yet another warrior dangled in front of me. This time, I looked up and froze.
My enemies: an army of spiders. To my left, to my right and covering the entire ceiling, the worst of the creepy crawlies had made an impenetrable fortress of doom in the entryway.
Now, I wouldn't say I am afraid of spiders. Being afraid of something 1/800th your size is silly. It is more a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil or pain that relates to spiders, which happens to bear a striking resemblance to the dictionary definition of fear.
But regardless of my feelings toward these miniscule menaces, it was clear that I had to destroy them. The little varmints had gone the entire summer without being detected, yet I had already killed three that day. Truly, I was meant to be the champion of my good coworkers.
I suited up for epic battle. Broom, hat and the biggest wad of paper towel I could manage were my only tools against a militia of eight-legged foes. I chose a sparingly populated corner of their webbed kingdom and, with another battle cry of Ewewewewewew!,"" I struck.
One tiny spider fell to the floor, and I gave him a satisfying squish with the broom. Three of his comrades quickly crawled out to recover the body, but with a BAM! SPLAT! and KAPOW! they fell beside him.
My blood was rushing now, and my whimpering girly-man squeal turned into a fierce war cry that would make William Wallace proud. I swung my broom around violently.Two fell to my right, and five were squished at my feet. The security tape looks absolutely ridiculous, but I was in prime form.
Sweat dripped from my brow, and I was taking heaving breaths. But as I scanned the entryway, only one was left: the mother of all spiders. It was as long as my thumb and nearly twice as wide. I eyed the creature, and it suddenly began to scuttle towards me, clearly preparing to attack. With a mighty ""Huzzah!"" I stabbed the beast and held my broom aloft in celebration.
But as I held the broom high, the spider crawled down from the bristles and bit my hand. ""Thou art a little piece of donkey dung!"" I cried, though not in so many words. Hurling him to the floor, I stomped him into oblivion.
Seventeen spiders died at my hands that day. The gore and glory made me a hero amongst my coworkers. But each morning as I kneel to scrub the chairs, I have a sneaking suspicion that somewhere in the dining room there are eight beady little eyes watching me, plotting revenge for the massacre of its people.
If you are paranoid of spiders trying to kill you in your sleep, e-mail Megan at mcorbett2@wisc.edu.
