My garage is a Daddy Long Leg playground. I'm not sure why, what attracts them or even how they get in. The garage is attached to my house and my laundry machines are in there, but the spiders stay out of that area. There must be too much commotion. I can understand, as I travel through for laundry purposes on average of 1,003 times per day. That's my side of the garage.
The rest of the garage belongs to Daddy Long Legs. We can't use the space for our car because our car is an American mini-van and we're in Europe. The car is to the garage exactly what my family is to Europe (too damn big).
Anyway, I rarely disturb the Daddies' playground. My husband does, on occassion, because most of his things make up the park in which they play. Every now and again, I go into the area, alert and aware but neutral in attitude. I shuffle whatever it is I'm there for with a shoe-covered foot, I wait for the Daddies to scatter, then I go about my business. I swear that sometimes I come out and I can feel hair-like legs tickling my face. I brush that off and move on.
I have to think my husband appreciates this attitude of mine, as it is a fairly new calmness. Five years ago, I would've been screaming (high-pitched and loud) two seconds before I entered the garage and then throughout the entire process. I would've burst out from the depths of the room, still screaming, but now shrieking urgent demands like, "CHECK ME! MY HAIR! GET THEM OFF ME!" And my husband would do what I said. His reaction would be patronizing, but he'd know that I would not stop screaming if he didn't do what I asked. If he chose not to help, screaming and shrieking would continue until I toppled to the floor and passed out in exhaustion from the ordeal. When I awoke, there would be lots of drama to deal with like, "You're never there for me when I need you." And tears. I would add lots of tears.
But, I'm not like that anymore. I've been cured face-your-fear-style. The last house I lived in was located in southern Africa. Zambia, if you know your African countries. There are nasty monster bugs in Africa and it was a constant battle to keep them outdoors where they all belong. I've seen so much: mouse-sized cockroaches, lizards, even a snake, all on the inside of my home. You're supposed to let the smaller lizards live with you, because they love to eat the malaria-infested mosquitos. So, we did that. They became a presence. Smaller, gecko-sized lizards scuttled down the hallways and along the bedroom walls. I became used to it.
Occassionally, a larger lizard would invade. I never got used to those. A larger lizard won't scatter. Or scuttle. If you're ever living in Africa and you find one of those in your hallway, it stays still and stands off. It doesn't move until my husband is sweeping it into a trap while I run around in a crazy zig-zag patttern and shriek in the next room over.
After three years in Africa, I never realized how much caution I had come to use when entering a room. I slowed down my pace. I conducted a detailed visual scan of the floor, surfaces and walls. I had come to be constantly aware of my peripheal vision. So much so that when I returned home to the U.S., I'd stop short if anything crossed my senses. Big bug on the floor? No. Hairbrush. Snakes? No. Sprinkler's coming on.
It's not that the Daddies aren't bad. They are just so much better.
