Dance With a Spider

At the start of my 46th summer on Earth, I pick up a weed eater with the intent to turn it on and use it. My work generally keeps me inside, and often tied to a desk, so I love taking outdoor, yard-working breaks. How had I gone 46 years without ever having used a weed eater before? But that’s a mystery for another time.

I decide to help out with the yard work by weed eating the line of grass against one side of the house and around my precious blueberry bushes. These bushes have been outgrowing pots for at least five years now. I haven’t planted them because I’ve been waiting until I purchase a home where I can plant them in my own yard. So instead, I’ve moved a few times and brought these four bushes with me every time. Two of them are so huge that when I moved earlier this year, it took me and three of my children (ages 14-27) to carry each to the back yard.

On this particular day, I ask the homeowner how to use the weed eater. It’s battery-operated and not very big. It’ll be super simple and probably even fun. I push the little button on the side, pull the lever to start it up, and away I go. I’m sure I look like a pro as I gently swing the thing back and forth in front of me. Never mind that I’m wearing my PJ bottoms, flip-flops, and a tank top. I’ve got my sunglasses on so at least my eyes are protected, right?

It’s amazing how tall the grass has sprung up around my blueberry bushes! I have to set the weed eater down to tip and roll the bushes apart enough to get to the grass between the pots. It feels great to be working outside, soaking up the sun and being productive in the process.

I pick the weed eater up and happily continue my task. It’s a little slow-going because the grass shoots are so tall and when I cut them, some of them threaten to snag in the spinning part of the weed eater. As I work, round, grass-looking things, as tall as I am, shoot up and out like little rockets all around me. It’s like grass fireworks. Just look at them fly!

I feel a tickle on the bare part of my chest, just above my tank top, and look down to see if a piece of grass got stuck. Instead, a spider smiles up at me. His body is huge. Add in the length of his legs, and he’s almost as big as my hand. And now we’re staring into each other’s eyes.

It’s a good thing weed eaters turn off when thrown in the air. In that moment, I’m clearly not thinking of anything except making the creature remove himself from my chest.

But it’s not like he can fly, even though that seems to be the way he got there. I’m not about to pick him up and set him in the grass. I just want him off me immediately, so I pluck the front of my skin-tight tank top where it sticks out the most, between my breasts, quickly stretching it away from my body as far is it goes before it snaps from my fingers.

For some reason I think this is a good way to make him leave. But where do I really expect him to go? He doesn’t have many options. I can scare him up, so he’ll run right up my neck and onto my face. Or he’ll go up to my shoulders, at which point he’ll either keep going up onto my head, or around to my back, and then what?

But none of these work for the big guy with eight legs. Instead, the sudden movement of my hand plucking at the front of my tank top scares him so badly, he loses his grip and down he plunges, just before the tank top slips from my fingers. The scream doesn’t rip from my throat until that moment, when he disappears down my skin-tight shirt.

It’s a good thing this is all going down in the backyard, without any witnesses. Although, nowadays, if someone had recorded it and set it to music, it may become the next big dance hit. Dancing is another thing I enjoy doing. It's usually refreshing and energizing. But this is something entirely new. It’s a full body dance. I jump from side to side, wave one arm around, while repeatedly plucking my tank top with the other hand, screaming while bobbing my head from side to side, and looking down to watch him come out of hiding.

The dance isn’t over until my dance partner vanishes. I pull my shirt out and look down it. No spider. I check my bra. No spider. I jump a few times and pat myself down. I even pull the waist my PJ pants out just to make sure he hasn’t gotten sneaky. He appears to be gone.

But like any loss, part of me is in denial. Periodically, over the next few hours, I shiver and look down my shirt. My brain has a hard time processing the fact that he’s really not there, probably because I didn’t actually see him leave.

Looking back, I suppose my dance would have been enough to scare away even the bravest dance partner. Sometimes I still think of him, still feel his presence, still wonder if he’s with me because the last time I saw him, he was in my shirt. He left my life just as quickly and mysteriously as he entered it. Goodbye Mr. Spider. Thank you for the dance.