Eeek Factor
Some might call me squeamish. I don't really like the sight of blood, needles, medical procedures or general body goop. When they take my blood, I can't watch them do it, and once the needle is in, they must cover it or I WILL pass out just from looking it. I'm not a big fan of other kinds of grossout factors, either--I HATED the movie Jackass, I don't like bugs, I'm not a fan of snakes or rodents or other vermin. (While I am a fervent animal lover and have a healthy appreciation for "helping others," I suspect this anti-biology orientation is the primary reason I did not pursue a career in either science or medicine.)
While I may be easily grossed out, I am not, however, a screamer. I'm not the girl who screams at a pitch only heard by dogs and stands on a chair while creepy crawlies scamper around on the floor. Repulsed face-maker, yes. Surprised yeller, yes. Eye-shielder, of course. But screamer?? No. Until...
An incident last night made me an official one-leg hopping, girly-voiced screaming, hand-wringing freak.
I headed down to the gym last night after work for the first of a series of spinning classes. I had remembered to pack my bag in the morning with the essentials: gym shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, socks, sneakers. I hadn't used my bag for a few days, but didn't notice anything amiss as I loaded it up.
So imagine my surprise when I opened my bag and found a new friend inside.
Yes, that's right, the extra inhabitant of my gym bag was none other than a Texas-sized roach. For those of you who have never seen a Texas-sized roach, pinch your index finger and thumb together: the outline your hand makes is how big one of these babies is.
And it was inside my bag. In. Side. Crawling all over my stuff.
What else could I do? I screamed and threw the bag down. A colleague came to my aid.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a bug. In my bag. A big bug. BIG."
"What kind of bug?"
"BIG."
"Let me see it." She rustles around in my bag, as my little crawly friend tries in vain to find a new dark spot upon being exposed to the light. "Oh... that's a roach!"
More screaming.
"I'll get him." She proceeds to pick up my bag and jostle it around in the hopes he'll just fall out. Instead, he seeks shelter in my shoe. She dumps it on the floor, but he still won't come out. Finally she upends the shoe and out he tumbles, and as he races across the floor... SPLAT. (It's good to know not everyone is squeamish, but I'm going to think twice about walking barefoot in the locker room for a while.)
I don't know what's more disturbing in this situation: Roach crawls in my bag at home and gets shuttled to work, or roach crawls in my bag in my cubicle and gets shuttled down to the gym. Neither seems to be an attractive option. I'm planning a massive cleaning of both spaces and quite afraid for what I might find...
While I may be easily grossed out, I am not, however, a screamer. I'm not the girl who screams at a pitch only heard by dogs and stands on a chair while creepy crawlies scamper around on the floor. Repulsed face-maker, yes. Surprised yeller, yes. Eye-shielder, of course. But screamer?? No. Until...
An incident last night made me an official one-leg hopping, girly-voiced screaming, hand-wringing freak.
I headed down to the gym last night after work for the first of a series of spinning classes. I had remembered to pack my bag in the morning with the essentials: gym shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, socks, sneakers. I hadn't used my bag for a few days, but didn't notice anything amiss as I loaded it up.
So imagine my surprise when I opened my bag and found a new friend inside.
Yes, that's right, the extra inhabitant of my gym bag was none other than a Texas-sized roach. For those of you who have never seen a Texas-sized roach, pinch your index finger and thumb together: the outline your hand makes is how big one of these babies is.
And it was inside my bag. In. Side. Crawling all over my stuff.
What else could I do? I screamed and threw the bag down. A colleague came to my aid.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a bug. In my bag. A big bug. BIG."
"What kind of bug?"
"BIG."
"Let me see it." She rustles around in my bag, as my little crawly friend tries in vain to find a new dark spot upon being exposed to the light. "Oh... that's a roach!"
More screaming.
"I'll get him." She proceeds to pick up my bag and jostle it around in the hopes he'll just fall out. Instead, he seeks shelter in my shoe. She dumps it on the floor, but he still won't come out. Finally she upends the shoe and out he tumbles, and as he races across the floor... SPLAT. (It's good to know not everyone is squeamish, but I'm going to think twice about walking barefoot in the locker room for a while.)
I don't know what's more disturbing in this situation: Roach crawls in my bag at home and gets shuttled to work, or roach crawls in my bag in my cubicle and gets shuttled down to the gym. Neither seems to be an attractive option. I'm planning a massive cleaning of both spaces and quite afraid for what I might find...
1 Comments:
Hi,
My name is Andrea and I'm working on the Spinning Nation event. I won't bore you with the details, but it's the first nationwide Spinning fundraising event ever and we have a very small staff putting it together. If you like the idea after you take a look and wouldn't mind mentioning us on your blog, it would help a lot. If not, I understand. Blogs are a very personal thing and I'd never ask if it weren't for good causes. Thanks, you can reach me at andrea@sportsgrants.org. The website is www.spinningnation.org.
Best regards,
Andrea
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