Spiders, Ants and Bill Pullman

I hate spiders.  More than hate, I fear spiders.  It is an irrational/rational fear.  I think it is perfectly rational to fear spiders, seeing as they kill one in 12 adults per year. (Probably.) On the other hand, I realize that when seeing an extra large spider it is not rational to run into the next room and cry into a pillow.  

When alone and faced with a spider to kill, I give a sort of pep talk to arm me for the battle. “I am the dominant species.  I am a thousand times bigger.  It will not kill me, I will kill it.  He will die today and I will go on. I AM THE DOMINANT SPECIES!”  And I like to let the speech build as I say it, like it’s the speech from Independence Day: “We are going to FIGHT!  WE are going to SURVIVE….”  With my new found courage I move the coffee table with the strength of a woman freeing a child from under a car and drench the eight legged fiend in apple lavender body spray.  Then I drop a book on its fine smelling disoriented self. “TODAY is OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY!!!” #lovebillpullman

I was thinking about this other day as I cleaned out my car. Yes, I like phrasing it like that "just cleaned out my car".  Like one morning I woke up and decided that a clean car would be refreshing.  Went out spritzed it a bit, and now it’s shines like when I drove it from the dealership.

I would like to believe that is what happened and that I didn’t have ants.  Yes, ants.  Tiny little horrible creatures that were pointing out every piece of trash and loose Cheerio that had littered my car.  I have never been a neat person, but I am not a dirty person and have never had a problem with bugs.  

About a week ago, I saw one maybe two tiny little black ants running around my car, but there wasn’t a whole lot to munch on.  Oh, there were crumbs and such, but nothing overly sweet.  (I like that last excuse I admit to food but pride myself on its low sugar content.) 

But the other day my daughter was munching on granola and spilled some in her car seat.  And as the old adage says, “Nothing motivates a mama bear like ants in her baby’s chair.”  So I gave my little girl some sidewalk chalk and dragged out the vacuum.  

I was thorough.  I was motivated.   I was ashamed.

I told my friend about this whole incident and she said I should put it in my blog.  I didn’t want to.  I wanted to hide this.  Hide it in that dark place where I carry my shameful secrets, like how faithful I am to the show Castle, or how I come down on the wrong side of history when it comes to Nickleback.   

Mark it down as a failing, and then carry it like lead in my pockets.  Lead that whispers that success is not something I was designed for.

The tiny ants were marching like little picketers with signs suggesting who I really am.  “You’re dirty.”  “You’re a failure.”  “You can’t manage this part of your life.” Let’s just shorten that to “You can’t manage your life.”

Who knew ants could say so much?  This is one of the problems that I have with digging myself out of clutter or tackling something that has gotten out of hand.  I look at a table covered in papers and such, or a pile of mail, and I see failure.  I see a mirror showing the true me, a poorly functioning adult.

This is the sort of lie I can’t believe any more.  This year is about not feeling powerless or crippled by my state any more.   It’s about speaking truth, and when the problem is actually bigger than me, falling on the Lord’s strength and going on. This is the time when I need to say, “It’s Florida, and sometimes an ant is just an ant.”

 

So I looked at whose small damning creatures took a deep breath and began. “I am the dominant species…”