This morning, as I was hard at work just a-tippity-typing on my laptop, I felt a little tickle on my arm. Thinking it was an errant thread or perhaps one of my incessantly-out-of-place hair strands, I gave the spot a thoughtless wave of my hand.
I was greeted by a spider. A black one. With eight legs. (I think. I didn't really look at it that closely or for very long.)
I don't have a problem with spiders, per se. I'm not scared of them when I spot them in the wild or, more often, in the great indoors. On my arm, however, it's clearly a different story.
There was some significant estrogen- and adrenaline-induced squealing. I think there may have been a little hopping in my fun summer wedges. (Thankfully there are more than a few people out of the office in my corner of the agency today.)
I swatted the visitor off of my arm, stood up in a near-panic and then tried to distinguish the large (very large) black body from the unvacuumed mystery pattern on our artsy and modern carpet. A gentlemen, very disturbed by my distress, aided me with just the stomp of his foot.
Truthfully, I could have done that myself. In any other instance, spiders have little effect on me. I'm grateful for the help, though, and the knowledge that spider-killing chivalry is not dead.
But now I can't stop rubbing my arm. There's a phantom tickle there constantly. Silly spider ruined my morning. Now I'm worried that Monday morning y'all may see someone at the agency meeting looking vaguely like a future comic book hero.
I was greeted by a spider. A black one. With eight legs. (I think. I didn't really look at it that closely or for very long.)
I don't have a problem with spiders, per se. I'm not scared of them when I spot them in the wild or, more often, in the great indoors. On my arm, however, it's clearly a different story.
There was some significant estrogen- and adrenaline-induced squealing. I think there may have been a little hopping in my fun summer wedges. (Thankfully there are more than a few people out of the office in my corner of the agency today.)
I swatted the visitor off of my arm, stood up in a near-panic and then tried to distinguish the large (very large) black body from the unvacuumed mystery pattern on our artsy and modern carpet. A gentlemen, very disturbed by my distress, aided me with just the stomp of his foot.
Truthfully, I could have done that myself. In any other instance, spiders have little effect on me. I'm grateful for the help, though, and the knowledge that spider-killing chivalry is not dead.
But now I can't stop rubbing my arm. There's a phantom tickle there constantly. Silly spider ruined my morning. Now I'm worried that Monday morning y'all may see someone at the agency meeting looking vaguely like a future comic book hero.
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