It was a typical early Friday evening. I was sprawled out on the couch, watching TV, enjoying my downtime before heading out for the evening when my night took a turn for the worse. I bent down to pick up the remote and it was staring me in the face. I couldn’t avoid it. It was here. I was face to face with a roach.
I simultaneously screamed, jumped and flailed while the roach had a similar reaction and sped back under my coffee table. Heart pounding, I froze. You see, I don’t do bugs. Need someone to clean the toilet? I’m your girl. Want a partner to compete in a 10k mud run? Sign me up! Dare me to jump out of an airplane 10,000 feet up? Been there, done that.
But bugs? Um, no. Until now, I’ve always had a roommate who didn’t mind bugs and it was understood that she took care of the bugs and I took care of anything else. But a year and a half ago I made the decision to live on my own. And at this moment, I was cursing that decision over and over in my head.
After calming down a bit, I called my parents. (Why? I don’t know. They don’t live in the same state and couldn’t help, but I called them anyway.) I knew I had to take action, so I forced the roach out from hiding and attempted to kill it with my broom. But, he was fast and I was shaking. I realized this was going to be a battle.
Since Plan A had failed, I moved on to Plan B. I trapped the roach under the coffee table using board games, photo albums and books until there was no visible escape route. Then I climbed onto my desk chair and called my friend (okay, my guy friend) and asked him to come over and kill it.
It shames me to even have to write that sentence, but it’s the truth. For some reason, bugs make me act like a ten-year old girl who just got boy cooties on her hands. I stood on the chair, waiting for my friend and stared into the proverbial mirror: Was this really me standing on a chair, heart pounding, waiting for a guy to save me from a bug? In every other facet of my life, I’m a very logical person. I weigh all of the facts, take my time and make the logical choice. But when it comes to bugs, all logic goes out the window and I end up 26-years old, standing on a chair, holding a broom.
I’d love to say that pride overcame my fear; I jumped off the chair and triumphantly killed the sucker. But, alas, I waited for my friend and, at most, was credited with an assist in the killing. Logically, I know that one day I will have to kill a bug bigger than a fly. Illogically, there will always be someone around to kill it besides me…right?
You can read more from Kira Weinstein on Twitter @kbweinstein