I have a problem with bugs. As far as I can tell, they serve absolutely no purpose and I’d like to live my entire life without ever coming in contact with one. And in terms of hierarchy, the mosquito ranks at the very TOP of this list of my most hated living things.
I’ve tried very hard to mask my irrational hatred and fear so that my daughter doesn’t develop the same issues I have. And up until the other night, I was doing a pretty good job. But in one instant, I managed to successfully undo three years of effort, thanks to one very simple incident.
It was after dinner at my parents’ house. The door had been left open and a mosquito the size of Texas flew inside. My husband tried – unsuccessfully – to covertly kill the thing against the wall, but only succeeding in giving him a headstart up the stairs. Rather than following the satanic creature, my husband instead turned around, gave a shrug, and said, “Good luck, guys! I’ll see you tomorrow,” before attempting to head out the door and leave for the night.
Feeling both guilty (what if it has EEE? Zika?? Malaria?!) and disgusted (how dare you breathe in this house?), I decided to venture upstairs and try my luck. My husband followed me, with my daughter in his arms – not to try to help, but to watch the show that was about to unfold.
As I turned the light on, my vision adjusted precisely in time to observe the gargantuan monster fly right at the middle of my forehead, where it ceremoniously bit me before flying away and perching itself on the wall.
I’m not entirely sure what happened at that moment, but when I finally realized what was going on, I became keenly aware of the fact that I was screaming, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” at the top of my lungs while running in circles around myself in a dimly lit room. My child was wailing hysterically in the arms of her father, and my husband was waving his hands in front of my face, saying something that I couldn’t comprehend. The poor kid wouldn’t stop hugging me afterwards, thinking that I had been eaten alive, and she now likely has PTSD from the entire experience.
So I guess I could have handled that one better. And in case I ever start to forget, I’ll probably always have this giant welt on my forehead to remind me – assuming I don’t die from whatever disease the thing was carrying in the first place.