Sunday Newscape Magazine

I’ll admit to being a bit batty when it comes to bugs. Actually, if you ask my husband, he’ll tell you I’m more than a bit batty. I go insane over insects and not in a good way. When any kind of creepy crawly comes within a reasonable distance (meaning, when I can see it or hear it or even if I just imagine I’ve done so), I tend to engage in all kinds of undignified actions that amuse strangers and embarrass my family and friends.

As with many psychological defects, this pest paranoia can be traced back to my childhood. When I was about eight years old, I was stung on the big toe by a yellow jacket. I can picture the scene in my memory like it was yesterday. My big toe was just minding its own business - hanging out on the ground at a picnic shelter, enjoying being free of shoes and in the company of my other toes – when this gigantic, predatory flying thing the color of sunshine did a dive bomb toward my foot and attacked me with a stinger the size of a viper’s fangs. OK, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but only a slight one.

Needless to say, I was traumatized by this event and probably should have undergone years of therapy. But my parents failed to provide this therapy for me and so here I am, permanently damaged.

People make fun of how I currently deal with bugs, especially the flying kind. We’ll be sitting around on our patio, sipping wine and having an enlightening conversation about world peace or life-changing literature or our favorite reality TV characters when I suddenly realize that an insect - either a flyer or one of the insidious creeping kind - is nearby. My whole body contorts into a corkscrew, my hands raining down blows like shock and awe through the air and on my chair, slapping my arm or leg or the back of my neck. And often, I have to knock invading insects off someone else’s arm or leg or neck. I’m only trying to defend us all from the bad old bug. But for some reason, most people don’t seem to appreciate my vigilance.

“Why are you so spastic about bugs?” my family regularly asks me.

Just as a prophet is never accepted in his own land, an insect fighter is never honored in her own home. It’s both a gift and a curse.

The problem is that sometimes I am fooled by inanimate objects posing as the dreaded enemy. I have leaned back in a kitchen chair only to fight off a perceived wasp attack on my neck from what turns out to be a grocery bag on the counter. Or I’ve brushed by a curtain chord and immediately slapped my arm, convinced that a deadly brown recluse spider has finally found its mark.

My family and friends find moments like this highly entertaining. You may or may not be surprised to learn that I’ve been the butt of numerous bug jokes. But that’s OK. The next time a yellow jacket targets my big toe, I’ll be ready.

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved www.jackiepapandrew.com