It doesn’t mean much to the rest of you guys, but I have a mammoth black spider hanging out in my bathroom. I call him Albert because he’s really smart. He’s got long legs and is jet-propelled for short distances. He can see me in the dark. I can’t see him.
If Albert could write his name on a document, I would have him sign a non-invasion treaty so I’d feel more comfortable in my private space.
I don’t know where Albert stays when he’s not in my bathtub or under the toilet seat. For such an obese arachnid, he can squeeze into the tiniest cracks at the edges of my bathroom floor. Yesterday, I saw him dangling from my medicine cabinet like he was the lead act in a county carnival show. He’s mocking me. I race for my “spider swatter.” Albert drops to my sink faster than a speeding bullet and saunters into the drain.
Sherry kills no living creature. She instructs me to let Albert be Albert. She tells me I need to mellow as I age.
I smile and thank Sherry for the advice.
Yet, I have a new strategy. Before implementation, I’m waiting for Sherry to go to the grocery store.