The funny thing is, I didn't have a problem with them until about four months ago. Growing up in India, I encountered spiders occasionally. Sometimes they'd have a web in the corner of a ceiling, or they might scuttle over the floor of an outdoor inn, but these occasions were quite few and far between and the spiders were always of unalarming small size.
In fact, in spite of being allergic to spiderwebs (yes, I get hives), I didn't actually yelp or cringe or gasp at the sight of a spider.
Until I moved into our new house, where, to date, we must have unearthed about thirty spiders. For the most part, they've been the small spiders that end up living in houses that aren't occupied (no one had lived in ours for a few months before we moved in). Occasionally, they've been quite large, prompting a squeak from me and an attempt to curl into the farthest corner of the couch while Steve deals with them.
I kid you not, the spider was nearly four inches long from leg to leg. That's ginormous. And it was smack bang in the middle of the stairs. I didn't see it on my way down, which means I spotted it on my way back up, let out a shriek, and backed hastily down again. I couldn't go back up. Which left me downstairs all day, with my phone, the bathroom and my clothes upstairs.
Yep. I was stuck in a cold house in a flimsy see-through nightshirt until Steve came home from work. Five hours later.
The spider, thankfully, did not move. I checked on it every five minutes. As the day grew darker, I could have sworn it doubled in size.
The moral of the tale? Spiders are the root of all evil.
And get dressed before you go downstairs.