|Thanks for pic cicadainvasion.com!|
Ten minutes passed. It's now getting into my head--that whirring. I can't take it anymore. Really, what is he making? And now that I'm focused on the sound it doesn't even sound like a blender. My mind starts conjuring new and exciting blender-juicer options, something only raw food people and black market anti-food pyramid people are privy to. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I leave my work--another fascinating post about hearing loss, and head downstairs.
I didn't find my son juicing or blending. I found my cat "playing" with a green and blue cicada--who needless to say wasn't happy about it. After freaking my cat out, "Kitty, what are you doing!?" so she ran away and sat at the edge of the hall, I realized I had to save the cicada. Gross.
I'm not the kind of person who saves bugs. I know many people who do-including my son who once raced me around a room to try and save as many stink bugs as he could. I was racing to kill them with a shoe. I don't mess around. I don't care that the stink bugs are smelly or that they're so slow, boohoo, or that they were only investigating a window I left open, they don't have a natural predator in this area, so it's basically my job to kill them. Needless to say, the idea of saving a cicada--the bug I have feared, even more than spiders, since childhood did not sit well with me. Really, they're gross. Like snakes, they shed their entire outer skin, but unlike snakes, it looks like a fully functioning exact copy of the original. You come across their crunchy outer skins and think it really is a cicada and jump out of your own skin. Willies.
There I was, facing off against a cicada who had his/her big glossy wings out and bulgy eyes pointed in my direction. Great. I steeled my courage and did what I had to do. On tiptoes, I skulked down the hall, grabbed the end of the rug running down the hallway and pulled it quickly out my front door. The cicada stayed where it was as I yanked it outside. Phew.
Once out, I flipped it off the rug and dragged the rug back inside. I did not place the cicada gently in a tree, nurse it's crooked looking wing back to health, or give it milk in a bowl. I left it there. It seemed grateful. And because I am me--a person who will stare in fascinated horror at a spider trying valiantly to swim toward the leaf in my pool, I still feel like I did a really good thing. I might actually be a really good person.