We’re having a plague of moths this year. They are huge, fuzzy and leave their powder all over me. Yes me — apparently I am magnetite to moths. They fly into the bathroom when I am getting ready for bed and, instead of sensibly swan-songing all over the light fixture, they fly into me at great speeds, leaving little plumes of moth-dust in the air as they hit and bounce off me. Gah!
I used to think moths were rather wonderful: they were mysterious and beautiful night creatures, always geting the short end of the beauty stick compared to butterflies. That was before I developed a moth-gravity. Before they flew onto my toothbrush, strafed me on the toilet and fluttered on the back of my neck while I was carefully removing a contact lens.
Gah! They ping-pong between my computer screen and me, bang-bang. The pinball wizard has nothing on these moths. I bat frantically at the air with National Geographic, my novel, my keyboard and very occasionally I connect. The *thwack* of moth being hit into the stratosphere is very satisfying… until they return, and seek me for comfort, clinging groggily to my pyjamas and hair, recriminating.
I trapped one under the base of my stand-mirror in the bathroom. It was huge, and particularily persistent, and having screeched and batted and waved and magazined it into submission, I couldn’t quite bear to thwack it flat. Or I couldn’t get a good angle with the MEC catalogue, I’m not sure. In any case, I covered it up and left it there.
The next night, I called upon my husband, who has no fear of any bugs and mocks me heartily for mine. “Please dispose of a moth” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding me” he said. “Nope.”
I gave him directions and a magazine, and retreated to the other side of the bathroom door. I was pleased to hear some of the same screeching and waving and thwacking and crashing that usually accompanied my moth-attacks. I couldn’t resist poking my head in to watch the fray, though I suffered at least one moth-bounce to the face for my curiousity.
Finally, it was done. Over. Finite. Requiem for a moth.
Poor Steve: “it was beautiful. Beautiful. It was beautiful and I killed it.”
I love my husband, first for killing the moth, then lamenting it.
But I hate the moths.