Why I may never shower again.

I almost died this morning. OK, that's a little dramatic, but still. I almost died. Almost.

So I'm in the shower. La, la, la, washing my hair. Minding my own business. Rinsing soap suds out of my eyes. And then I glance at the ceiling...


Ohmygodit'saspider. A spider. The Spider. An arachnid. Mom. Help. Whimper. Eight legs. Crawly. Sigh. Oh my. God.

Instantly, I panic. My blood pressure raises. Actually, only two things raise my blood pressure. An episode of "24" and a spider. Apparently.

Can he see me? Wait. Don't spiders have like 800-billion eyes? Or something? One of those 800-billion eyes must see me. I must hide. No. I can't hide. THERE'S NOWHERE TO HIDE. I must make slow movements. The slightest disturbance will wake him from his crawly existence and he will leap from the heavens, or my ceiling, and land on my face, sucking the life right out of me through my skull.

I still have shampoo suds in my hair. I must rinse them. Quickly. And without closing my eyes. Or turning around. I must be on the defense at all times. I can't make myself vulnerable to the attack. Oh crawly spider WHY did you choose my bathroom to take up residence? Why? I hate you.

Shower not completely finished, I push the curtain back and plunge forward to the security blanket that is my towel. I wrap myself tight, darting my eyes throughout the surroundings of my bathroom. I'm safe. Except for The Spider On My Ceiling Who Is Waiting For Me To Let Down My Guard So He Can Eat Me.

I keep my eye on him and walk backward to the door, which, in actuality, is not too far of a backwards walk, seeing as though my bathroom is, like, three feet in diameter. On the count of three, I swing open the door, squealing across the apartment, towel flailing. My arms are swinging, I'm slapping my legs, checking my drenched hair.

Is he on me!? Is he! On me!? GET HIM OFF ME!

And then I stop. Nope. Not on me. Still on the ceiling. In the bathroom. Dammit. I'm never going in there again.