I heard on the news that the annual tarantula migration has started in southeastern Colorado. Thousands (yep, THOUSANDS) of hairy, horny, 10-year-old, male gigantic spiders are marching their way into the state. They are cruising for chick spiders. That is just seriously gross. Like total arachna-geddon.
No, I will not be going to see them. Not now, not in this lifetime, not on this planet, not ever, ever, ever. Rather adamant about that, aren’t I. It’s rather easy to turn a spider into a tarantula, err, make a mountain out of a molehill. How often do you make a problem bigger than it is?
These days, the world moves fast. Technology is great, but we expect everything immediately. Demands grow, deadlines were yesterday, and anxiety rules the day. Eight days – ahem – scuttle faster than that arachnid after a mate.
The spider march serves to remind us that in nature, things take their time. The spider knows when it is time to make the trek, maybe his hairy little b*lls grow as a reminder. Do spiders even have them? And why do I care? Eww. They march on at their spider pace, blissfully unaware that some monster truck could mow down half their army in less than a minute. Less competition for the girls, I suppose. They know what they are after and they keep going. Somewhere in the grasslands, the ladies are lounging, waiting for these determined fellows. They do the tarantella (it is a dance!) and a few thousand eggs are laid. No, I’m not writing this while drunk. Spidies make me crazy.
The point that I’m attempting to make is that things will happen as they should and in their own time. We can turn them into a tarantula, freak out and f*ck things up unnecessarily. Take your time, breathe and don’t swat the bug. Everything will work out.
In eight days. More or less.
Did I just see a spider?! Aaackkk!