There I was, making the journey from the living room couch back to my bedroom to complete my quarantined travel for the day. I entered my room, slipped out of my daytime tie-dye sweatsuit and into my night pajamas, and almost curled up with my book. Sounds wonderful, right? A slightly above average ending to a slightly above average day of circuit training, pancake eating, lecture listening, grocery shopping, dark chocolate snacking, and TV watching.
But then I see it. A spider. Having the audacity to climb in MY doorway, right next to MY doorknob. A pest, threatening my safety, well-being, and sleep for the night (disclaimer: drama added for effect). Almost like it was second nature, I immediately scream, "Dad! There's a spider!" without the thought passing my mind that my dad had clocked out for the day about three hours prior during our family movie sesh. I then resorted to my second draft pick, my nearly 21-year-old brother, before realizing he was on his sixth hour of playing "Sims City" for the night, deciding where the most profitable location was to construct a railroad for the residents of Watervale. The virtual residents, that is. Nothing had interrupted his six hours of strong dedication to his noble citizens, and I knew my plea to kill a spider certainly wouldn't be ending his streak.
I then paced back and forth for a few minutes, deciding if my third-draft pick of my mother was even worth the few ounces of energy I had left in me for the day. As I looked down at my phone, it occurred to me that I've wasted four minutes on the contemplation stage of this measly spider, and zero minutes on the destruction of this threat. Four minutes! Four minutes I could have spent catching up on Cody's Ko's YouTube, browsing through Emma Chamberlain's thrifted outfit collection, or reliving my college experience thus far by watching Horned Frog Game Day videos on repeat. (I'm aware these all sound very juvenile. That's because they are. Not yet giving up my adolescence entirely just because I've decided to write a fancy lil blog.)
So, with four minutes passed and no progress made, a stark understanding fell into my lap. This spider, this so-called threat to my personal sanity, is about 1/10,000th of my weight and even less so of my height. Why couldn't I kill my own goddamn spider? Without any further thought, I stormed into my bathroom with all the perseverance that Rocky had in his final ring. Before I let this minuscule insect get into my own big head, I was going to take matters into my own hands, literally. Equipped with a paper towel, I took a deep breath and smashed that thing in the snap of my fingers. My process to get there was odd, yes, but the relief and pride I felt after was even odder. Why did I feel so accomplished from such a simple task?
Now, I know you think this is heading in some ultra-feminist direction, where I analyze how my first instinct was to go to a man, and how girls are trained to be passive by societal norms and big-box movies. This is true and all, but it's a song for another time, and I song I may not know enough about to ever compose.
Instead, what came to my head immediately after sucking the life out of that poor little guy was the metaphorical significance of my experience. Yes, in true Caroline fashion, a simple act of killing a spider translated into a realm of explanations for all of life's choices. Throughout this time of self-reflection caused by mere self-isolation, I've learned a few things about Caroline Hughes. Or, rather, I've confirmed the suspicions I've always had about my flaws: I am terrible at being an impulsive, appropriately aggressive, self-promoting decision-maker. While I am certainly an advocate for living out a youthful adolescence full of adventures and sleepless nights, this form of impulsivity is slightly different. Here, I am talking about impulsively taking control of your life. In order to be a preacher, I've got to start practicing.
We all have a list of hobbies we want to pursue, instruments we want to learn to play, people we want a relationship with, jobs we wish we could try out, and roads we wish we could travel. Money we wish we could save, clothes we wish we could wear, and experiences we wish we could experience. All of these seemingly whimsical fantasies, nightmares, delusions, and reveries are in fact our spiders. If we never take the leap, kill the goddamn thing, the list will pile on for miles long until we've forgotten what our 6th-grade ambition was, what our futures were dreamt up to be on our wedding night, and what our mother told us we've always been good at and should give an honest try. If you never cross anything off the list, you're going through life in a room crawling with living spiders. Terrible imagery, I know, but it gets the point across (just in a slightly disturbing manner).
So, I did a thing. I killed a spider, and I wondered why I ever questioned my ability to tackle a task right in front of me that I was so capable of doing. From this point on, I'm challenging you to kill your spider. Make a leap and decide to finally tell that guy in class that you think he's funny and that you'd love to grab a coffee. Send an e-mail to that newspaper editor you desire to be one day, congratulating them for their success and humbly asking them for mentorship. Be impulsive, but not just in the sense of taking your mom's car out for a 1 am spin or buying a few margaritas in Mexico. Instead, in the sense that you could truly change your life for the better.
It's right in front of you, and I promise you are SO capable of it. Kill your goddamn spider.