It’s spider season.

I’d never heard of such a thing until I caught a small excerpt from the local news elaborating on why the little brutes are so active and invasive around the month of September. Apparently, they aren’t looking for a warm place as we all transition into cooler weather, but they’re looking for mates. By they, I mean the females- they’re hunting with a ferocious appetite for one of their kind to knock them up and put some food in their bellies.

If I was a male spider, I’d never procreate. For a few reasons. First and most obvious, depending on the species of spider I happened to be, I’d die. My partner likely wouldn’t name any of our too many babies after me because she didn’t bother to learn my name before consuming me. Second, I’d be going against everything I am by making more spiders. I hate them. They creep me out. I don’t want the world to have more spiders. The third reason is similar to the second in that this act would require the intimate company of another spider, which is leaps and bounds outside of my comfort zone. Then again, I’m assuming that some sort of anthropomorphism has taken place and that if somehow I found myself incarnated as a spider, I’d still have the mind of a man. If this ever happened, I’d run out in front of the first human I saw with my compound eyes and hope that they stomped the life out of me. Because it’s that easy.

Why am I afraid of spiders? Why would any person be afraid of something that’s thousands of times smaller and slower than they are?  I have yet to come to blows with an eight-legged beast that I can’t kill, no matter how much I panic as I do it (I’m not doing a great job portraying myself as masculine, am I?). I’ve been told through bouts of laughter in many cases that the spiders are actually more afraid of me than I am them. I’m not convinced. It makes sense that the tiny beasts, though they have more legs than I do- should be afraid of me. I just have to step on them to create and effectively push them through an exit from the land of the living. I can crush them. Spray them with poison and flood their homes. I am the one who has the power in the relationship. So what gives?

I’ve granted spiders the power they have over me. I’ve allowed them to torment my consciousness and ruin my showers. I didn’t willingly give them the ability to torment me, but my imagination certainly did. In my mind, spiders are incredibly dissimilar to what they truly happen to be. Sometimes, they’re eight feet tall with fangs like icepicks- ready to suck my body dry. Other times, armies of them have swarmed into my bed, my clothing and hair. Not really, but once an arachnid has been spotted and then lost, it’s anywhere and everywhere- particularly places I’d really rather not find it. In my mind, spiders run faster, jump higher and have more consequential bites than they do in reality.

What the hell is wrong with my imagination?

The same thing that’s wrong with yours and every other human’s on the planet. It’s boundless but occasionally obsessive. It takes hold of whatever it wants, whether I will it to or not. Our imaginations morph tiny afflictions and small noises in the middle of the night into demons or hook-handed kidnappers. Our fantasies give power to sex, money and relationships and devise saviors or monsters, with or without our consent.

I’ve been told that we can take control of our imagination- and I believe it. Meditation isn’t the culturally stereotypical emptying one’s mind so much as it is intentionally deciding what to ponder and in what light certain thoughts ought to be entertained. Maybe the panacea to my affliction lies in choosing to view multi-legged creatures not as nightmarish beasts but rather, as ridiculous little beings. Isn’t that how Ron Weasley overcame his arachnophobic anguish? Oh yeah- he also had a wand. And magic. He also happens to be a fictitious character. But the principle remains- I have to choose my perspective on spiders, politicians, television pastors and bad drivers instead of letting my wild imagination decide for me.