It's around the five year anniversary of when my fella and I met so tonight I planned a fancy dinner and just when I went to greet him at the door my world twisted into an awful version of Charlotte's Web except the momma spider hatched her babies in my front door jamb and I opened the door only for hundreds of baby spiders to be flying around-- eight crawling on my arm, five in the wreath on my door, at least fifty on the storm door, a dozen in my hair and on my shirt along with cobwebs. So much for dressing cute and looking pretty and put together while I greeted my fella at my door… sigh.
While eating, one baby spider even crawled down my fork.
Because they seemed to be everywhere, I was encouraged to use bug spray. I did and the rest of the evening has been spent crying. I didn't need to... those little guys weren't doing a thing to hurt anyone and for heaven’s sake even my last name means “spider” in Polish.
I’m not nocturnal unless you count 4:30 am when the rest of the world is sleeping. That’s the time I get up and get ready for work. I have an extreme commute (6 hours daily) but that’s a whole other story. Point being, I’m usually asleep at this hour but not tonight. I can’t sleep. My eyes are puffy from crying and honestly I’m still a little itchy from the now ghost-spiders crawling all over me.
I don’t hate spiders. In fact, I almost wore my pewter spider earrings for dinner but spiders creep out my fella just a bit so I went with bat earrings instead. I’m even a vegetarian!
Throughout my life whenever something needs to be done, I do it. Tonight it was save my fella from the flying baby spiders. I just wish that I could have taken a moment to think it through. I could have simply opened the storm door, left it propped open and closed my front door. The spiders would have blown away in the wind. Of course, they were probably indoor spiders and would have been a feast for other predators but being killed by bug spray is no way to die.
I’ve killed “bugs” before so why am I so bothered tonight? Was it supposed to be a perfect evening with my fella? Probably. But, I also think it may go deeper into the “not Goth enough” feeling that some of us discuss from time to time.
At 40, I was pretty certain that I had grown out of this. I mean, I am who I am; I like what I like. I’m not the 15-year-old dating the super-hot gothy- goth boyfriend whom I’m quite sure met every possible Goth cliché he could back in 1989. We met while seeing TheCure. For the next three years, we were in a relationship that pretty much firmed my image of the perfect male. Not until my recent fella have I even come close to my 15-year-old’s version of perfection. Back then I had a best friend whom I equally saw as the perfect Goth girl. She was beautiful with long naturally dark hair and she was insanely melancholy. Now, I can recognize that she suffered from a bit of depression but at 15 being melancholy seemed posh. Around her, I never felt “Goth enough”. I would always have to dye my hair and make a bit of an effort. Even at funerals, I was pretty perky. I was the kind of Goth girl who was usually laughing or skipping around pulling pranks. I liked to have fun then and I still do. In fact, the droning on of some of my favorite musicians even made me laugh back then… but I still loved them for it. We’re all different which makes the subculture interesting. Some of us like taxidermy bats while others (like me) prefer cartoony stuffed animals. But I always assumed she was what my super-hot gothy- goth boyfriend wanted but instead got stuck with the subpar version of the perfect Goth girl.
About a decade ago, I reconnected with my early 1990’s super-hot gothy- goth boyfriend. He had grown up and married a girl just like me! His wife and I hit it off. We wore the same body lotion, had similar occupations, read the same books. In fact, he joked that us hitting it off and nearly leaving him out of the conversation was not how the reunion was supposed to go. I remember leaving and thinking that at 15, he must not have wanted my melancholy-perfect-hair-friend but me for me.
Maybe I needed to write out all of this at 2:46 am to remember that my fella likes me for me—the remorseful vegetarian, spider-killer. I suppose killing all those spiders really hasn’t put me in jeopardy of losing my “Goth card”. Perhaps being counter-culture sometimes means handing one’s glass of wine to your fella so that you can rescue him from flying baby spiders.