I am not a morning person.
Which, admittedly, is the baseline standard of how I am, but after yet another night of tossing and turning (all thanks to the toddler next door performing her nightly high-pitched tantrum screaming ritual) and vainly attempting to get comfortable in the sauna that was my apartment, this characteristic of mine was doubled. (I did manage to fall asleep dreaming of ways to sneak into the apartment next door and silence the child…)
When my alarm went off, my sheets felt like soft, soft molassas, sticking to my body and keeping me comfortably molded to my IKEA fold-out bed. My cell phone was out of arm’s reach (my kingdom for longer limbs!) so I forced myself to sit up and start getting ready for work.
My head felt as though it were full of cotton balls, and my eyes were still cloudy from the few hours it managed to rest. I almost walked by the little moth that was perched on the wall above my dresser.
I suppose I should mention…I am also not a bug person. And I am a neat freak. So a bug entering into the sanctuary of my spankin’ clean apartment is a biiiiiig no-no. I’m not a very fearful person (my love for rollercoasters, horror movies, and bungee jumping notwithstanding), and I know they are technically harmless, but still…
…ever since I was little (and up til now), I’ve suffered severely from Lepidopterophobia…their manic, erratic movements, the muffled, ghostly sounds of their wings, the repulsive sensation of their eerie, brittle bodies crumpling beneath you (should you attempt to eliminate them)…I actually started crying when I had to go into the butterfly conservatory on a family vacation. I was 20.
So killing the intruder was obviously out of the question. At least by means of crushing. That would require me to get close enough to touch it. The only other method was the trap-it-in-a-cup-and-slide-the-paper-underneath method.
Which took me a lot longer than it should have, but nonetheless was a success.
The problem is, I didn’t know what to do with the Cup of Moth once I had it sitting on my bathroom sink counter. Hopefully, it’s still in there, baking in the heat of the apartment while I’m sitting here at work.
I pray that by the time I get home, it’s still in the cup. And dead. Burnt to a crisp. So I can flush it down the toilet without worrying about it flying into my face.
God forbid it’s not in the cup by the time I get back, I’m going to have another night of night of serious tossing and turning.
And if it’s in the cup, but still alive…well…I’m patient.
After all, the heat wave isn’t going to let up for another week, and I prefer my Cup of Moth extra roasted.