That’s it, I’m done. I hereby forfeit the stupid war and let go my worries. As one pop star wisomized “My give-a-fucks are on vacation” and I find myself in her good company (maybe? I don’t know her, so…). The point is, I simply don’t care anymore. I retired my hot pink three-inch heels deemed my spider squishers several years back, instead abiding by the collecting and rehoming method. But today? I’m letting them crash, accepting the pervasive adage: It is what it is. They are both scary and necessary. And the reasonable side prevails as logic reigns. I know it’s true: Most spiders don’t want to kill me.

Now, I say this having a friend whose husband nearly lost his hand to a nasty bite from a brown widow recluse or something rather, landing him in the hospital for a few weeks. They saved the hand in the end, by the way, but the spider got the sharp end of a spade. So, that little diddy aside, here’s what I know: These guys are decidedly not hanging about my home to surreptitiously sink their teeth into my skin in a murderous rage. Unless I get too close to them. Or startle them. Or accidentally walk into their sticky death trap.

Good thing I’ve reconciled this, given the company I’ve kept the last couple of weeks – were it only as exciting as it sounds. Seems around the time I brought a spider plant into my bedroom – one I have been assured I can keep alive (insert appropriate emoji here representing excitement, surprise, hope, doubt, fear, etc.) – a couple of arachnoids heard the news that we were a friendly place and set up camp. In the way back, I would’ve waged war, frenzied with my weapon of choice and squashing the enemy to protect my nest. In more recent years, I armed myself with a cup and a bit of fear as I relocated them to the great outdoors. And now? I give up.

So, in addition to Char, the spider plant, named after Charlotte the spider from the children’s classic tale Charlotte’s Web, and John-Boy, the safe-for-cats plant of a species I can’t recall, named for John-Boy from the 1970s historical drama The Waltons (and, yes, there’s a story there), I also have Charlotte, the spider named after the spider from the children’s classic tale Charlotte’s Web, and Hank, the Daddy Long Legs – a species with a ubiquitous and quite fictitious reputation – hangs about as well.

But I draw the line at three spiders. So tonight I found myself rethinking things after noticing a small eight-legged stranger seemingly floating nearby Char, who hung from a brightly dyed macramé holder attached to the ceiling by my window. It’s true, I have mostly abandoned my irrational fear of spiders – this while still remaining vigilant about things, lest the statistically unlikelihood I end up in the hospital facing an amputation. But, I ain’t looking to set up a silk shop in my space, either. What to do?

And then? Serendipitously, my issue was resolved when Trixie hopped up on the windowsill and sauntered directly into the invisible string, the gangly, spindly legged arachnoid hanging from its butt. As the spider worked to gain a hold, Trix jumped defensively at her own body, searching for the invasive tickler. And very soon, she found the little guy, popping it into her mouth like an afternoon nibble.

And there it was. Problem solved. Nature, bitch.