Attack of the Ants

The other day, I had a bit of a scare. I was lying on my bed watching tv, and right there, glistening on my white pillow, was a large, round black ant defiantly staring into my eyes. I froze. Most people would kill the pest and move on with their lives. I, on the other hand, felt a queasy sense of dread. Ants don't walk alone.

My irrational fear and abhorrence of ants began when I was six years old. My parents had just built a sandbox in our back yard for my brother and sister and I, and we were excited. Just what was so glorious about a four-by-four pit of dirt is beyond me now, but at the time, my dad may as well have constructed a three-loop roller coaster. The minute my dad poured in the last shovel-full of sand, my three-year-old brother, who had been sitting eagerly at the window sill, ran up to me. "Sissy! Come on. Let's go play!"

We went outside and my dad picked me up out of my chair and sat me in the dirt next to my brother. For two hours, we built sand castles, threw dirt at each other, and buried our legs. Then, being the creative, smart big sister that I was, I suggested that we dig traps in the sand box. I had seen a Discovery Channel special where some men had captured a lion by digging a huge hole in the ground, covering the top with a light brush to hide the hole, and then luring the lion, causing it to run right into the hole. I told my brother that we should build our own traps so we could trick people into walking into them. He eagerly agreed.

We each proceeded to dig a small hole in the sandbox, and picked two weeds to cover the holes. Of course, being the eldest, I was not happy when I realized that my brother's brush cover-up was better than mine. "Trade me weeds!" I demanded. "I want that one." The three-year-old happily complied. When I took the bigger, better plant from his hand, I immediately looked down in horror. An army of tiny black ants came streaming out of the weed, and crawled up my arms, under my shirt, down my torso, and onto my legs. I am not sure to this day whether I screamed or sat in shocked silence, but I was terrified.

My brother's eyes, as big as golf balls, welled up with tears, and he sprinted inside, screaming "Mommy, Daddy! Help!! Ants are eating Sissy!" Out ran my parents to find me covered in ants. Dad swatted some off of me, and Mom quickly scooped me up, ran inside, and threw me in the bathtub. Thousands of little ants floated to the top of the tub.

You can understand why I am not so fond of the little creatures anymore. But I'm tougher now than I was as a kid. When that little varmint, flaunting his shiny black exoskeleton, looked into my eyes and saw the years of built-up disgust, he knew that it would be best for all of us if he just left quietly. And off he scurried, never to be seen again.