A few years ago, I visited the zoo with a few friends. One of the attractions that day was that a worker there had taken out a tarantula and was letting people handle it. As someone who claimed to have "arachnophobia", I thought this might be a good chance for me to face my fears and have a good time doing it. Obviously, the giant, furry spider posed me no harm or the zoo person wouldn't possibly let a visitor hold it.
Alright, it's furry. I like furry things. It's the size of my face, so it's like it's not a spider at all. You'd need a shot gun to kill the thing. And how cool would it be to tell people I'd handled a tarantula?
My friend went first. He let the thing crawl on his hand and up his arm like it was no big deal. For me, just watching this made my heart race and gave me a weird ringing in my ears. I had to get out of there. Luckily, there was an adjoining room to the horrible tarantula one, so I bolted. LITTLE DID I KNOW this room housed a box filled with bees. "Put your ear up to the glass!" the placard beside the box said, like that was such a good idea. "You can hear them buzzing!"
No can do, I thought. The buzzing is one of the worst parts of bees.
Even though there was absolutely no danger and my friends were all enjoying the fuzzy little tarantula feet and the bees buzzing through glass, I had to stand in the middle of the room with my hands over my eyes until they were ready to go.
(And yes, this is from the same person who wants to own a cheetah. It's stupid and potentially deadly, but for some reason it doesn't scare me. After reading this article from Big Cat Rescue, I'm convinced it's a terrible idea and won't be housing anything other than a housecat.)
Something that everyone thinks is their business is the answer to when I will procreate. I can't imagine why anyone is interested in something like this. I honestly don't understand. When a friend of mine says she's having a baby, my knee-jerk reaction is, "Ohh, I'm sorry!" I can't help it.
Other people get unreasonably excited. They like to see the bump get bigger and put their hands on someone else's midsection. They want to hear all about the nausea and swelling, the bloodbath that happens at the very end, and coo at the gelatinous creature afterward.
Just like my fear that somehow a 10 inch tarantula is going to bring me down, I think a small child might dip its hands in strawberry jam and head straight for my art portfolio or bookshelf. I get the same racing heart, the same, "dear God, what's it DOING?" feeling.
I think I've got tokophobia. That's a fun new word for you. It's the fear of pregnancy and childbirth (two words I loathe and wish I could delete). If you can add to it the irrational fear that a running child will trip me and send me flat on my face, then do.
The bottom line is this: I'm a grown woman who hates repeating herself. I haven't got it in me to have anything in my house except a cat (or 3), and a husband who tolerates cats. I like to travel. I have my art/writing/etc. I hate cooking and being pestered. And if I have to help anyone with algebra homework, I swear to God I will move to a cabin in the woods where it's just me, a word processor, and my cats. Anyone who asks me about kids after this, I will answer with only an angry glare and maybe a card with the address to this article.
Alright, it's furry. I like furry things. It's the size of my face, so it's like it's not a spider at all. You'd need a shot gun to kill the thing. And how cool would it be to tell people I'd handled a tarantula?
My friend went first. He let the thing crawl on his hand and up his arm like it was no big deal. For me, just watching this made my heart race and gave me a weird ringing in my ears. I had to get out of there. Luckily, there was an adjoining room to the horrible tarantula one, so I bolted. LITTLE DID I KNOW this room housed a box filled with bees. "Put your ear up to the glass!" the placard beside the box said, like that was such a good idea. "You can hear them buzzing!"
No can do, I thought. The buzzing is one of the worst parts of bees.
Even though there was absolutely no danger and my friends were all enjoying the fuzzy little tarantula feet and the bees buzzing through glass, I had to stand in the middle of the room with my hands over my eyes until they were ready to go.
(And yes, this is from the same person who wants to own a cheetah. It's stupid and potentially deadly, but for some reason it doesn't scare me. After reading this article from Big Cat Rescue, I'm convinced it's a terrible idea and won't be housing anything other than a housecat.)
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| pretty funny! |
Something that everyone thinks is their business is the answer to when I will procreate. I can't imagine why anyone is interested in something like this. I honestly don't understand. When a friend of mine says she's having a baby, my knee-jerk reaction is, "Ohh, I'm sorry!" I can't help it.Other people get unreasonably excited. They like to see the bump get bigger and put their hands on someone else's midsection. They want to hear all about the nausea and swelling, the bloodbath that happens at the very end, and coo at the gelatinous creature afterward.
Just like my fear that somehow a 10 inch tarantula is going to bring me down, I think a small child might dip its hands in strawberry jam and head straight for my art portfolio or bookshelf. I get the same racing heart, the same, "dear God, what's it DOING?" feeling.
I think I've got tokophobia. That's a fun new word for you. It's the fear of pregnancy and childbirth (two words I loathe and wish I could delete). If you can add to it the irrational fear that a running child will trip me and send me flat on my face, then do.
The bottom line is this: I'm a grown woman who hates repeating herself. I haven't got it in me to have anything in my house except a cat (or 3), and a husband who tolerates cats. I like to travel. I have my art/writing/etc. I hate cooking and being pestered. And if I have to help anyone with algebra homework, I swear to God I will move to a cabin in the woods where it's just me, a word processor, and my cats. Anyone who asks me about kids after this, I will answer with only an angry glare and maybe a card with the address to this article.
