I woke up Tuesday morning and in preparing to go down to the latrine for my morning visit, I spent about five minutes shaking my rain boots and jumping all over them before I was willing to put them on my feet. How terrible would that be? You put on a shoe and your toes hit something giant and hard and hairy. ALSDJFOAWIHGASDLJ I panic just thinking about it.
After my latrine visit, I went running in and out of my room for my kindle. I sent an email to my mom, telling her that I had encountered a giant tarantula in my room and didn’t think I would ever feel comfortable in there again. I have never liked spiders, but my mom always made me feel a bit like an idiot for being afraid of them. The rest of that family too actually, we’re not allowed to be afraid of nature. I always felt like I disappointed my mom when I showed fear of spiders. Turns out, mom hates them too. A lot. I never knew that. She emailed back full of empathy and admitted she’s afraid of them too. That made me feel way better, especially because the disappointment I always thought she felt towards me was actually, she said, mostly embarrassment that she was afraid too, and that she’d passed that to me somehow. Less ashamed of myself, I sent out to make my room mine again.
I got a broom, beat the death out of my folded clothes on the blanket on the floor, and then proceeded to pick up each piece of clothing with the end of the broom, carry it out of my room to a table, beat it to death before I would touch it, then I folded it and placed it on a bench. I did this with every piece of clothing and everything under my bed. I went through my whole room, swept it and poked at it, until it was empty. Then I put everything back in a less-tarantula friendly way. My clothes are now folded into piles on a bench in my room, and I have designed, with measurements, shelves that I am going to pay my host dad to make me.
No comments:
Post a Comment