My friendly neighborhood banana spider did not move for the first three hours of my workday. And I was terrified. If you’ll recall, I introduced the banana spider to you before, back in July, when I first met MISS Banana Spider and mistakenly referred to her as a MISTER. Many apologies, MISS Banana Spider. That first entry is HERE. Now I know that the monster outside my window is actually a chick and that she brings boys home to mate with and then eat. (Smart spider.)
Anyway, this morning, she wasn’t moving, and some part of me wanted to curl into a tiny ball and sob like a 5-year-old with a broken toy. Take pause, readers, because it made me wonder, too. Wonder: have I gotten attached to the ugly thing? Embarrassing but true. I’ve become attached to her. Ms. Banana Spider with her ever-expanding yellow ass and her hairy knuckles. Ms. Banana Spider who most recently caught a moth the side of a silver dollar. I watched as she chowed down and then, saved some for later. And I sighed and said, “Awwww,” like I was looking at a damn puppy.
WHAT’S HAPPENED HERE?
It could have something to do with the note I received after my initial Banana Spider post, from a dear friend who was born and raised in Sullivan’s Island, SC, entitled “In Response to Sara Dobie’s Hating of Banana Spiders.” And I quote: “Instead of murdering that fascinating mosquito feasting female that lingers outside your window, open it, and thank her that you are not suffering from Malaria… and if you don’t like it… GO BACK TO OHIO!!!” (Ah-hem.) Okay. Sorry. Beyond the chiding, this note also taught me that the MISTER was a MISS, for instance, and that MISS loves mosquitoes, which we all know were created specifically to torture me. Therefore, “In Response…” writer, I do thank Ms. Banana Spider, for possessing such an excellent palate.
But maybe the attachment has nothing to do with the note. Maybe the attachment has to do with everything repetitive in life—you get used to it, so when it’s gone, it leaves something lacking. It leaves a hole that you never even knew it filled. And that is Ms. Banana Spider. I’ve watched her since July. She’s crawled around. She’s stared at me through the window. (I swear I could see her beady eyes judging my hairstyle.) She keeps her web nice and clean, and she has yet to kill a bird or a poodle. I can barely admit to it, but dang it, I like her. And this morning, she wasn’t moving. I told my coworkers. I made them look at her, and they all shook their heads, hopeless.
I hunched over my computer and tried not to think about having to watch Ms. Banana Spider rot and disappear into the overgrown bushes below my office window. But then! Then, she started moving! I sat up straight and yelled “She’s ALIVE! She’s ALIVE!” I think I heard someone mutter “nerd,” but I didn’t care. My little friend wasn’t dead. In fact, she was climbing all over the place, waving her creepy eight legs as if to say, “Hello, world, I’m ready for another day of blood-sucking and slow prey asphyxiation. Woooooo!”
Okay, yeah, so I’m a nerd. But at least I have my little friend back—a companion who protects me from biting bugs and terrifies a guy in our shipping department. How many of you can say the same?
(Dedicated, of course, to Freddie and Bowie.)