There Ain't No Bugs on Me

7/19/14

Ever since I was a little girl, I have taken a great pleasure in the catching and killing of bugs...specifically, flies.  It's an anomaly...While my hand-eye coordination is generally sub-par, I can catch flies in mid- flight like a f*king ninja.   It's a skill my father helped me to acquire in the 2nd grade.  I think it made me feel safe or less afraid...if I could smash it, how scary could it really be?

Fast forward 20 years to July in The Gambia.  Now that the rains have finally come, they brought with them all.the.bugs.  Many many bugs.  Perhaps a visual is necessary.  Anyone remember the ROUS' from Princess Bride?  Well these are the BOUS'.  I'm talking Jurassic Park caliber shit here.  For the last few days, I've been alternating between being totally fascinated at their enormity and terrified that one is trying successfully to burrow into my skin.  Thankfully, my level of bravery is increasing daily, as one can only have small children laugh in your face as you "eeek" and "ewww"  so many times before you feel like a total asshole and need to re-evaluate your life.  Sure, I will take language lessons from a four year old little girl, but I will NOT allow her to protect me from a beetle....even if it is on steroids. 

Soo, yesterday, I made the executive decision to cease all fear and revive my ninja skills.  After dabbling in a few minor kills, my confidence was rising.  Then, ready-or-not, I was prematurely called for my black belt exam.  Last night, after brushing my teeth outside with T. Swift, (my fav goat pal)  I was ready for bed. But, upon coming back inside, I realized that my room was absolutely crawling with insects. On the floor, on my walls, flying through the air.  It looked like the page of a bug encyclopedia had come to life.  Heart racing, I geared myself up---I can do this. 

So...there I stood in the middle of my house, wearing nothing but a pair of giant underwear, my retainers, flip flops, and a headlamp on full blast.  I went into full attack mode.  Noises were made. Grunting was involved.  A few respectable (ish) screeches of disgust slash terror were uttered and one or two verses of "yea, bitch...this is my house"later were yelled, and my work was done.  As you can imagine, the aftermath was not pretty.  Carcasses covered every inch of my dirt floor, and I'm pretty sure a few were stuck in my hair.  Either way, one sweep of the battle grounds, and I was ready for bed. 

Now, if I could just muster up the same courage for all things furry,  I'd feel unstoppable....but I think in that case, I'd really rather the 4-year olds handle it.