Sunny summer days
Drift along
Taking my lazy ways
Across river deep and wide
Burst-of-color leaves
Silently fall
Calling my soul to grieve
For things unfinished
Speckled blue skies
Fill with migrating birds
Loudly, their cries
Call, inviting me along
I yearn to travel
To see family far away
Concerns, worries unravel
Twisting around my fingers
Earth-bound am I
As winter approaches
Eager eyes look to the sky
Seeking freedom
I have always hated spiders. Going way back into my earliest memories, I cannot recall a time when I was ever intrigued by spiders or wanted to observe them or even yearned to know anything about them. To put it simply, they terrify me.
A scientist might be able to explain all the beneficiary things spiders do to enrich our earth, which is good, but it would not change my mind.
Spiders, unlike dogs, creep about. They make no sound as the crawl across my ceiling or up my walls. Sometimes when I am sitting on the couch one appears and crawls across my book or, even worse, up my arm. Or maybe on my neck.
They have the ability to drop on you without any kind of fanfare. One minute there is no spider, next thing you know, there it is.
My reaction is swift and certain. I sit up in horror as I attempt to brush it away. I might leap (as best as this aging body can do) while brushing away the offensive creature. If it’s anywhere near my husband’s shoes, I will use deadly force by slapping or squishing. Only with his shoe: never mine.
Some kids are intrigued by spiders and like to make temporary pets out of them. This gives me the willies. I get the same feeling when I visit an animal sanctuary and see spiders of various sizes and shapes in aquarium environments. I want to look yet can’t get away fast enough.
I have had negative encounters with spiders.
There was a time when I was a young teen and was taking a bath. I was just about finished when I felt something land between my shoulders. I screamed so loudly that both my parents stormed into the room, assuming that some terrible thing had occurred. I was embarrassed to have them in the room while I was completely naked, but I put that aside in order to be rescued.
They didn’t save me. They made fun of me.
Thankfully my dad left while I dried off, but my mother lingered. Perhaps that was a good thing because she discovered a small, round, red spot on my back. And when the tub was drained, a spider remained. My dad was summoned to witness that I had not imagined it, then terminate it.
There was no lasting damage and I didn’t become ill, but the event solidified my fear of spiders. This was proof that they were out to get me. I knew that this was not the last attack, but rather the first of many to come.
Many years later, after I was married, I was taking a shower to get ready for work. Suddenly an intense pain began in the little toe of my left foot. I looked down and spotted a brown spider sitting there. It was probably seeking refuge from the water, much like a swimmer finding higher ground during a deluge. I panicked, to say the least.
There was nothing I could use to smash it, so I shook my foot until the spider fell off. I turned off the water and got out as quickly as I could. I would have gone for my husband’s shoe, but then I realized that it was, in fact, a brown spider. By this time I’d heard of recluse spiders whose bite could make a person quite ill. Thinking that this might just be a recluse, I wrapped myself in a towel, went into the kitchen and retrieved a glass jar.
The spider was still in the shower when I returned, so I trapped it. I screwed on the lid and was going to leave it on my husband’s dresser as evidence in case he came home and found me dead. But then I remembered that there would be no air in that jar. Granted I would have smashed the spider if it hadn’t bitten me, but now I wanted to preserve it just in case.
I carried the jar into the garage and using a hammer and nail punctured several holes in the lid. I kept the spider trapped all day, sitting on the dresser.
Because I began feeling ill almost immediately, I called in for a sub (I was a teacher) and stayed home. My toe did become a bit inflamed and I thought I saw a red streak going up my leg. I spent the good part of the day with my leg hanging down, trying to prevent poison from getting to my heart.
This was before the Internet so I had no way to research what type of spider it was nor any side effects of its bite. I acted on impulse, not on fact.
By the time my husband returned home from work, I was feeling fine and embarrassed. It turned out that it was a common brown spider, it was not poisonous and I had wasted a day of sick leave for nothing.
The next major encounter with a spider was when my husband decided we would head south to the Grand Canyon. I was excited about the trip as I had never been there. After finding a camping spot and setting up the tent, we went to the Visitor’s Center.
As we followed the path to the entrance, I trailed my hand along the top of a brick wall. Thankfully my hand was on the top and not gracing the side and that my eyes caught something in time for me to withdraw my hand. Nestled in a depression in the wall was a large tarantula. Imagine if I had touched its hairy legs! Imagine if I had brushed its abdomen! The horrors!
I felt ill just thinking of all the things that might have happened. My young son, however, was intrigued. He wanted to pick it up and let it sit in the palm of his hand. My husband seemed to agree that it would be a great thing to do, but I refused. Even after another visitor did just that. He let the spider sit on his arm and offered it to my son. I shivered as I shook my head. I grabbed my son’s arm and pulled him away, enticing him with the air-conditioned center.
My first teaching job was at a city-run preschool. Every session I took my classes to the local nature center. I was brave enough to touch the snakes (in order to reassure my students that it was okay to do so) but never the tarantulas. I tried, I really did, but just the thought of doing so made me ill.
Over the next several years no major spider encounters happened. Yes, one would appear in the bathroom where it would be smashed to death. Yes, one would walk on my arm while I sat on the couch. Yes, sometimes one would have gotten inside my car and have to be dealt with before I could continue driving. But no bites.
Then my daughter’s family bought a house in Utah that had a serious spider problem. These were not tiny brown spiders or even medium-size spiders. They were gargantuan. They had long legs and thick, round bodies. And they were everywhere.
You’d spot them walking down the hall or front room. They’d be above your head on the ceilings or coming down a wall. They clustered in windows inside and out. They seemed to be wherever I was.
One time I was downstairs brushing my teeth, getting ready for the morning. I heard a loud thump behind me, turned around, and discovered that one of them was now sitting on the edge of the tub. The sound I’d heard was it dropping from the ceiling. Put that thought in your mind: a spider so heavy that when it landed it made a thumping noise.
Add to that the sheer size of the spiders. You couldn’t smash it with a piece of toilet paper or a tissue. It would have needed something the size of a shoe with plenty of applied pressure.
I had my own shoe handy, but there was no way I’d have spider guts on the bottom of my own shoe. I seem to recall going into the hallway and finding a magazine that had seen better days. I’m pretty sure that I used the magazine to smash that spider so it could never drop down and terrify me again.
On another visit I was getting ready for bed when a spider came from the ceiling and landed in my open suitcase. I felt nauseous as a shiver shook my body. At first I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. When some degree of rationality returned, I began flinging my clothes, one article at a time, out of the suitcase. As each piece of clothing fell to the floor, I stared to see if the spider emerged.
I threw socks, t-shirts, pants and underwear, not caring what it was. The spider had to be gone and the only way that was going to happen was if I lifted it out inside my clothes. I got down to the layer on the bottom. I picked up the last pair of panties, shook them, and out fell the spider.
Relieved that it was gone, I was able to breathe easier. However, it was there, in the hallway, inches from my room. I had to act. Had to do something so that it could never return. The only thing I could find was that same magazine from before. I dropped it on top of the spider then stomped over and over until I was sure it was dead. I didn’t look.
After my clothes were back in the suitcase, I zipped it up and kept it that way.
But now I couldn’t sleep. My bed was a foot away from where the spider had dropped from the ceiling. Knowing that the house was infested, I couldn’t sleep. At least with the lights off. So I kept them on. But every time I closed my eyes I imagined spiders dropping. Even though it was warm, I pulled the sheet up over my head, encasing me in cotton. That’s how I got through the night.
It’s not just spiders that scare me. I am terrified of heights. Back when I was in college in Los Angeles my parents insisted the I fly home every other week. This was back when it cost $14 round trip.
I hated it. Take offs were terrible, but landings were worse. One time I was waiting to board and so nervous that my entire body was trembling. A man sitting next to me noticed and began talking to me. He told me to keep in mind that the pilots wanted to take off and land as safely as I wanted them to. Just as I wanted to go home, so did they.
Those calming words spoken over fifty years ago still resound with me today. Because of one kind man I have flown to many different states and countries.
But I won’t climb ladders. When we first bought our house, my husband needed help cleaning the gutters. He knew I was afraid of heights, so he asked me to just climb high enough to be able to hand him tools. I did it even though it scared me.
When our kids were young, we bought a blow-up boat. One camping trip we were near the Truckee River. It was peaceful looking, so he decided we would float down the river. As long as the river was smooth, I was happy. When it began getting choppy, I got scared. I rode down the first set of rapids, but from then on, I insisted on getting out just before the rapids began.
I’d walk back to the truck, drive to the end, pick them up, return to the starting point. While my fear kept me from enjoying the ride, there was a plus: they didn’t have to carry the boat.
Recently we were on a vacation trip in Colorado. The only excursion option was a raft ride down a class three river. Just thinking about it scared me.
I can swim. In fact, I am a lap swimmer. So why does the thought of floating in rapids scare me? Because it’s the unknown.
That’s the way it is with most phobias. We fear the unknown.
Movies have taught us to be scared of sounds in the night. To be wary of strangers. To not go into the unknown. Bad things happen to characters who break those taboos. They die or come perilously close to death.
We’ve seen people slide off roofs, fall out of planes, drown in lakes. Boats explode, snakes escape their tanks, lions eat the unaware. Fires consume houses, gasoline bursts into flame and water turns into floods that sweep people away.
There are infinite possibilities for things to fear. It’s no wonder that we develop long-lasting phobias.
While I do fly and I did learn to swim, I am still terrified of spiders. I did conquer the river in Colorado and would have gone a second time if the opportunity had arisen. I don’t like ladders of any height, but if my husband needed me, I’d do it for him.
My phobias will always be there. It’s whether or not I allow them to control my life that makes the difference. And I am determined to live the fullest life possible.
Do you know what’s like to be trapped in a body that you dislike? I do. I had been “fat” my entire life. My outer body was covered with pudgy layers of rolling fat, while my inner body yearned to be thin, luscious, and downright sexy.
When I was in fourth grade I attended a Catholic elementary school in Dayton, Ohio. We were poor, and so I wore hand-me-down uniforms and carried the dog-eared books belonging to a previous student. Before the school year began, my mother drove me into town for the annual used uniform giveaway. I hated this ritual. Because of my weight, we dug through the small pile of plus-size jumpers, most of which had seen better days. No longer navy blue except where food stains darkened the fabric, these uniforms marked me as “poor” and fat.
Fourth grade was a year of becoming aware. This was the year when my older brother explained that there was no Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, or Santa Claus. This was also when I discovered that others saw me as a fat little girl.
Sitting in church one morning, a girl next to me reached over and poked me in the thigh. Her hand “bounced” high in the air, over and over, mimicking playing on a trampoline. She pulled her skirt down tight over her six-inch wide thigh, measured with both hands, and then held her hands over my much larger thigh. The difference was startling enough to cause a riot of giggles up and down the pew.
Not too long after that, one day I had no choice but to go into the girls’ bathroom, something I tried really hard to avoid. A group of popular sixth graders were lounging against one wall. En masse, their eyes scanned my plump body as a look of pure disgust erupted on their sophisticated faces. I quickly locked myself into the nearest stall so as to hide my tears.
“Fat people stink. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s because they leak urine,” Mary Beth Saunders said.
“It runs down their legs when they walk,” Sue Anne Watson added. “It leaves streaks that won’t wash off.”
“I hate fat people. They’re disgusting,” Wanda Belter said.
“If I was fat, I’d hide in my closet and not eat anything until I got skinny,” Mary Beth said.
“I’d kill myself,” said Sue Anne.
“Not me,” added Wanda. “I’d ask my mother to tape my mouth shut and then I’d stay home until I looked better.”
Eventually they took their comments outside. Only then did I emerge from my stall sanctuary. When I got home that night, for what was not the first nor last time I took a long look at myself. I really, truly was fat. There was no denying it. Rolls of fat enveloped my abdomen and my thighs quivered with the tiniest of movement. When I looked down, I couldn’t see my toes, let alone touch them.And because of the horrific things those girls had said, I even thought I saw urine streaks.
Repulsed by what I finally admitted to myself, I fell into my bed and cried for hours.
I began dieting at the age of ten and have never quit.
I convinced myself that trapped inside my obese body was a voluptuous woman yearning to be set free. That woman wanted to be active and energetic. That woman made me feel guilty about the cookies and candy that I so loved.
I think she got tired of the struggle and simply gave up for many, many yeaas.
Because I wore rags and hand-me-downs, I dreamt of being able to go into a store and buy tons of new clothes. When I began working and earning enough to take myself shopping, I felt something stir inside me that has never gone away.
I am a shopaholic. There is nothing that charges my battery like a mall. It’s as if a competition is on to find the best bargains, and without fail, I rise to the occasion.
As I stroll in and out of stores I admire the svelte garments displayed on ultra-slim mannequins. Sometimes I touch the fabric, pretending that I am seriously considering taking one home.
Back in my fat days, just as I imagined myself wearing the outfit, reality slammed my forehead and crimson colored my neck and cheeks. At that point I would dash away, off to the fat ladies’ department where I belonged.
One time I went shopping with a bunch of relatives. My husband’s sister was getting married, and everyone was in search of a dress to wear. I trailed along as we went into masses of stores. I watched as they pawed through racks and racks of clothes. I drooled as they spoke about how well the colors of the different fabrics blended together.
They all found things to try on. They all believed that they had found the perfect outfit.
But not me. I never carried a garment into a dressing room. Why? We never got close to the fat ladies’ clothes.
For years I shopped alone. Without prying eyes I could go into Catherine’s or Lane Bryant or the Women’s section of JCPenneys and not die of embarrassment.
Except on the rare occasions when I visited a truly great friend who understands what it’s like, because she is also “fat.” When we were together we forgot about size. We saw the beautiful person underneath.
When we went shopping, we would try on clothes, and purchase our finds, sharing our good luck.
There were days when I convinced myself that I looked pretty darn good. I would be wearing an attractive outfit that hid the lumps under layers of fabric. I would head off to work feeling happy and proud. No one noticed. No one sent even a tiny compliment my way. It was as if I were invisible.
Most overweight people will tell you that being is not unusual.
A slim person can walk past an obese person without once glancing her way. In fact, there can even be accidental contact, one shoulder brushing another, with no apologies offered. It’s almost as if the skinny individual had touched a ghost.
I have heard thin people say that the obese choose to be that way. That if they simply stopped binging on eating cupcakes and chocolate. They’d lose weight.
What critics don’t process if that genetics and physiology play a part in how easily a person gains and sheds unwanted pounds. An overweight child is extremely likely to remain overweight into adulthood.
If you are born into a family of obese individuals, the odds are that you will also be obese. My paternal grandmother stood a little over five feet tall, but hit the scales at well over two hundred pounds. I was built just like her. Added to the familial tendency to put on the pounds was my mother’s belief that a fat baby was a healthy baby. Because she fed me until I had fat wrinkles on my arms and legs, I was doomed from the start. My mother fed the cellulite, which plumped me up like a marshmallow. I spent years trying to reverse the damage.
Over and over I embarked on one weight-loss program after another. Two years ago I developed a serious health issue that required surgery. Because of being obese, the surgeon wouldn’t operate. That was my motivation.
Over a period of a month, the doctor’s deadline, I lost twenty-nine pounds, plus a few that keep recycling off and then back on again. After that my motivation skyrocketed. If I could do that, then why not more?
It took ma almost a year, but I lost just under eighty pounds and dropped four sizes in pants and three sizes in tops.
If I could go back in time and change just one thing, one thing that could forever alter the events in my life, I would have been a skinny child. In my mind, skinny children were happy children. Skinny children had friends. Skinny children were invited to birthday parties and given cards on Valentine’s Day. Skinny children did somersaults and laughed and played.
I would have been one of them. Because I was athletic even when obese, as a skinny kid I would have been chosen first when dividing up teams. I would have attended every birthday party and been invited to sleepovers.
As a teenager I would have goon to school dances with a different handsome beau on my arm. Cheerleading would have been my passion, and as a dancer I would have reigned supreme.
Whenever I went shopping, it would have been with friends, giggling as we strolled through the mall. Fun would have been my middle name.
I would have been hired as a flight attendant, the career of my dreams. Or maybe the receptionist in the front office. Or the statistician in a major think-tank.
Think how different my life would have been! Zipping here, there, everywhere, always surrounded by friends.
There are some things that I would never change, no matter what I looked like. I have a husband who loves me, my children are my pride and joy, and I loved my job. I have been blesses with grandchildren and significant others in my children’s lives.
I have had a good life.
I wish that society did not disdain the obese. Unless you have worn that body, you do not know what “trapped” truly means.
children at play
laugh all the day
rejoice in life
without much strife
wide-eyes surprise
springs from their eyes
dancing, singing
joking, laughing
bubbling with joy
each girl and boy
create the earth
from their own birth
to something new
mystical brew
nary a thought
of something bought
giggling, shouting
each believing
laugh all the day
children at play
From my window
I see children at play
Two tiny boys
Brothers
Bouncing a seemingly large basketball
With skills beyond their sizes
Three girls, maybe eight or nine,
Ride matching pink bikes
Around and around
Weaving in and out of driveways
Between parked cars
Smiling and giggling loudly
A young teen washes his old car
Rubs hard at the rust spots
On the bumper
As if, by that simple act,
He could remove the damages
Of time
One of my neighbors turns on
His electric lawnmower
And all sound is obliterated
obnoxious reverberations
erase the pleasantries
of the summer day
calling me back to
my workday world
I miss the exuberance of children,
The intensity of the teenager,
And the innocent belief in a world
Becalmed in a storm of noise.
Words and Thoughts 