While at 168 lbs. I probably won’t be mistaken for The Rock or John Wayne, I think I have a reasonable amount of cool going for me. Cool, that is, unless there’s a large arachnid or centipede involved or, as I discovered this weekend, small rodents.
Yes, this weekend, I quite literally ran into a nest of just-born, but still very undeveloped baby rats or chipmunks in a friend’s backyard. My foot hit their nest and sent these crying, shaking, blind little embryonic-like creature squealing and shaking and scurrying their way right toward me.
They squealed, I squealed–just like that wuss on the David Spader commercial who climbs over his office cube to escape his would-be attacker.
I sounded like a teenage girl at a Hillary Duff concert, only two octaves higher. Great fun was had by all onlookers, which consisted of family, friends and video camera.
HA!!! This is the price we pay for having video technology at our fingertips today. Life’s most embarrassing moments are much more likely to be captured for eternity these days, unfortunately.
I don’t think it’s so much the size or shape of a critter that gives me the Willies, it’s the way they carry themselves. If spiders moved like turtles, I don’t think they would be quite so frightening.
A very weird thing happens to me when confronted by Evil Creatures. I go into Momma Bear mode.
About a year ago, my two dogs woke me up one weekend morning with quite a ruckus outside my bedroom window. After going outside and observing the situation it became clear that they had a snake bayed up against the wall.
I went and got my square shovel. Back at the scene, as it raised its triangular head up against the brick wall smacksmack-smack it cut its head off with the flat sharp end of the shovel.
Later I discovered that the darn thing was a water moccasin as thick as my arm. I should have been scared but at the time I wasn’t.
I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes or worms or creepy-crawly things. In my younger years, I even ate a few, but only if I was dared.
I don’t faint at the sight of blood. I love roller coasters. I’m not bothered by either airplanes or submarines.
I have climbed trees to dizzying heights. (Dizzying, perhaps, for other people, that is.) I have swung on a trapeze and rapelled down cliffs. One time I peeled a barely-breathing six-year old off the floor of the deep-end of the public pool. (And I didn’t even get a raise. Being a lifeguard sucks.)
I have spoken and sung in front of huge audiences, despite the fact that I am tone deaf. I am told that I have “stage presence.” I fear neither failure nor success, though I regard the former as a major inconvenience.
I have remained perfectly still while a karate master punched and kicked within milimeters of my face, while a magician sledge-hammered a cinder block on my chest, and while a marksman shot the tip off a cigar in my mouth. Not all at the same time, of course.
When I’m rich, I plan to purchase my own fighter plane, so I can take a ride in the ejector-seat.
I fear nothing.
Except contact lenses. You want me to put what in my where? A tiny piece of glass on my fucking eyeball?! Are you INSANE?! Euueueueuegh. That’s fucking disgusting. Bleugh.
It is amazing that the slightest things bring out the wuss in us. I’ve flown military grade planes, jumped out of them and even rapelled (sp) from a few choppers. I’ve shot and been shot at. I’ve seen death. blood and gore and, while that was always very sobering, nothing has ever brought out the wuss in me to the degree of standing on the roof of a house, or driving over a HIGH bridge. Given my love of aviation, I have often tried to figure out why I get white-knuckled over high bridges and break into a sweat and find it hard to breathe on a roof top. Could be worse though. My brother breaks into a cold sweat when he holds a ladder for me to climb. You ought to see the monkey show when he is compelled to do the climbing. And…yes, I have vindicated myself by pointing out the more extreme wussiness of my poor sibling.
I’ve come across very few creatures or objects in my lifetime that actually give me a deep-down, uncontrollable, gut-dropping case of the willies. But maggots do it every single time.
You’re not alone. I have no trouble with worms, slugs, centipedes or anything else. But maggots are our planet’s most disgusting creatures.
I’m also freaked out by dead or dying animals (not pets, which are entirely different). A couple years ago there was a seriously injured bird in the yard, feebly flapping around and obviously not going to make it. I ran inside and wouldn’t go near it til I knew it was dead. Then I scooped it up with the longest shovel I could find and, without looking at it directly, flung it behind the neighbor’s garage.
I’ve dislocated my shoulder playing hockey, popped it back in, sat out a shift, and played for another hour. Took a shoulder check to the mouth and played for another hour. Been hit in the eye and right along the hairline with hockey sticks. No problem.
I think snakes and spiders are adorable.
That said, even the smell of bananas makes me retch. Can’t stand the bastards.
Nothing beats the time I watched my mother running in a circle about three times shrieking because she had a leech on her leg she’d picked up doing yardwork. It was hilarious. I don’t think she’s going to ever forgive me for finding this funny…[SIZE=1]Sorry, Mom, but it was![/SIZE=1]
That’s what you get when you live in the swamp, I guess.
I was trimming some fig ivy on the side of our house recently and watched a snake, life flashing before your eyes slow motion style, extend out from my grasped fist and sink it’s fangs into the meat between my thumb and Mr. Index. After several rather audible ingestations of air I managed to exhale in a shrieking manner most fitting a four year old with asthma. Then I exploded from said shrubbery into the yard leaving behind an azalea symmetry absolutely beyond repair. Wus? Sadly, if I must.
I’m a wuss. A chicken. Yellow-bellied, lily-livered, whatever you want to call it, I’m it. Spiders and crawly things send me shrieking and flailing. I’m glad that sort of behavior is at least marginally acceptable since I’m female.
I also can’t handle swimming in lakes, and I don’t like the ocean. Too many sharp pointy or bitey things hiding in the mud and sand waiting to hurt me. And if I can’t see the bottom at all, forget it. I’ll watch the beach towels while you guys play. No, really.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I exhibited supreme wussiness during my formative years, By that, I mean that my fashionable bedroom curtains only covered half my windows. When it was Dark and Stormy outside, I imagined a psychopath escapee from a nearby Institute for the Criminally Insane standing outside in the shrubs, peering at me while plotting my early demise. I’m talking about a demented, wailing madman with tattered flesh pounding on my windows, shrieking like a banshee, and doing everything possible to smash through the window and kill me. In short, this wasn’t Walton Mountain.
All of which explains the arsenal of a weapons I would strategically lay around my bed in a circle of death each night. I’m talking 2-3 butcher knives, scissors, a WW II German dagger, a Japanese sword, #2 and #3 golf irons, and a 7-inch Thai butterfly knife nearly tucked under my pillow–right next to the flashlight.
:eek: DeHusband, ex-military gung-ho dude that he is, refuses to prune the rose bushes for the same reason. (I guess he’s not a weird as I thought.)
I have been trained from birth to believe that I can do anything. I am woman; get the hell out of my way, etc. My job required me to be just as out-there and far less squeamish than most of the boys (landfill inspector). Snakes, rats, smells… no problem. But even with all that… spiders. Oh.My.God. ALL spiders are Aragog or Shelob wannabees and are plotting my demise. <<shudder>>
Last time I saw that scene, I did a double take – it is blatently obvious that his arm was squished up against a pane of glass that was between him and the spider. See for yourself (Dr. No).
IMDB seems to agree:
They left in enough of the scene with Connery that you can still see the glass.
Oh yes… We have these icky centipedes in central Jersey that gross me out. They come in the drain pipes. Imagine finding such a creature in the tub or on the toilet. Ugh!
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