Now, he might defend himself with instances in which he was, in fact, right, but the fly in the ointment is the fact that I don't claim to be perfect. I mean, you can all read (presumably), so I couldn't get away with it if I tried. I mean, its true I didn't kill the giant spider in our dining room. He uses this instance as a defense to his laughing at me when I am upset. It is also true that I am completely, unalterably, and irrationally terrified of spiders. Except its not entirely irrational, because this terror stems from two facts:
I used to live in Georgia, in a swamp, with these:
L. Black Widow
R. Banana Spider
Below: Brown Recluse
So imagine my horror when I move to Kentucky (away, I thought, from the thought of waking up in bed with on of these on my face) to IN FACT wake up in the middle of the night with THIS on my face:
|Its a wolf spider. Painful but poison-less bite, but terrifying to find ON YOUR FACE at 2am. |
And yes, it really was that size.
And thus, my terror of spiders was born. So, knowing this, and knowing that I had been unable (due to my arachnaphobia) to kill a spider that morning, my husband thought it would be funny to tickle my face with bits of string until I woke up, thinking there was a spider on my face. And then blames me for my irrational response.
NO ONE IS RATIONAL WHEN YOU WAKE THEM OUT OF A SOUND SLEEP.
You know what? On that thought, I think I'm just going to leave that there. We can talk about sports tomorrow.