I hate spiders. I always have and the thought of them makes my skin crawl. Living in the Halloween capital of the world doesn’t make it any easier because I spend my October nights walking by large mechanical spiders hanging on every window. I have secretly used a fax cover sheet to push one near a co worker so they would have to kill it instead of me. Sometimes, I need my wife to kill them on sight. I know, I know, but in my defense, I would totally take out a mouse or a rat she needed me to so I think we are even. One time, my friends tried to trick me into seeing the movie “Eight Legged Freaks” under the guise of seeing “Attack of the Clones” in a hilariously twisted attempt to cure me of my phobia .
For some reason, I enjoy Spider-Man comic books more than most. I think he has the coolest costume and I day dream about web slinging from skyscraper to skyscraper when I visit New York City. Of course I prefer the comic inspired web shooters as opposed to the organic webbing in the movies. I’ve been writing a weekly comic book column for two months now and I have been very impressed with the Spider-Man books as of late. One in particular had a ton of giant spiders and I almost couldn’t finish reading it but I persevered. I just don’t understand how I can enjoy this character so much even though the insignia on his back makes me want to spray Raid on him.
I should probably turn in my man card after all of this. I don’t think I will ever truly discover why I find myself emotionally vested in this character that is derived from the very thing I simply can’t abide. Maybe this is normal or maybe I’m a special kind of crazy. In the end, I may never know.