Recently I moved into a new house. Not new new, new to me new. Why I emphasize that is because, although I really like the house, it has spiders. If you’re envisioning some Indiana Jones tunnel of death craziness or something, stop. It’s not spiders in the sense that everywhere-there-is-spiders spiders; it’s spiders in the sense that one-at-a-time-they-appear spiders. If there were hordes of them sprint-crawling around then I would no doubt cut my loses, burn the house down for the good of humanity, and flee, my legs trying so desperately hard to escape that they would nearly fling up and knock against the back of my head with each stride. But there is no spider horde (phew), so there is no need for drastic measures, matches, or extreme cardio today.
Instead, the spiders come one at a time. It’s almost as if there’s a mama spider hatching one egg at a time, telling each baby spider to “check it out. See if that lady with a shoe is gone.” I’m still here, as the latest baby spider can attest. Right now I’m staring at it while it’s probably staring back at me, me wondering if it’s staring at me while I stare at it while it probably stares back at me wondering if I’m staring at it. Mama spider may live to see another day, but baby spider on the wall will not, as it is due to meet my shoe any second.