Since I hadn’t been personally trampled by a water buffalo lately, I figured nature and I were on good terms—until a malicious arthropod mistook me for a maternity ward. Yes, I could have been killed.
Please don’t mistake me for a wimp. I’m in favor of deer and antelope playing, buffalo roaming and Bambi grazing (preferably in Montana). There’s no doubt I would have made a terrific park ranger if insects agreed to live in hotels.
This was different. I wasn’t traipsing through the woods, invading creepy-crawler territory. I was minding my own business, hauling art supplies to painting class, when my left knee started tingling. Weird. Then the tingling moved to my thigh, and rational thought evaporated. Something was crawling inside my jeans, and it definitely wasn’t an ant.
Grabbing my pants seam as far away from skin as 3 percent Lycra allowed, I quickly ascertained that whatever was trapped there was large and squishy and probably had teeth.
My brain went directly to DEFCON 2. It commanded my legs to run but wouldn’t let me drop the six canvases, the easels or the massive tackle box I was lugging. Hobbling up to the building, I pried the door open with my teeth and a foot, and—because I am an intelligent, capable, independent woman— I went screaming to the biggest, burliest male I could find, who happened to by my painting teacher.
“Danny, help! There’s something going on in my pants.”
“Um, if you say so,” he said.
Bewildered but cooperative, Danny began rolling my pant hem north. One turn, two turns, three.
I’m not a big fan of public nudity, but I was a millisecond away from DEFCON 1: Drop the art stuff. Strip naked. Do whatever it takes to escape the deadly pants.
“Please hurry,” I whimpered, trying not to hyperventilate.
Four turns, five. Danny was well above my knee when a large triangular head emerged, followed by 5 inches of brownish-green wriggling body.
By the time the mantis hit the floor, I was already screaming down the hallway. Molly, the security guard, came running, prepared to annihilate something with fewer legs than what I was screaming about.
Molly conducted a quick investigation while I got comfy in the fetal position. She soon returned, clearly disheartened by the absence of newsworthy threats.
“It’s just a pregnant praying mantis looking for a nice place to lay 800 eggs,” Molly said, holstering her weapon. “It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.”
Of all the things you should never say to someone having an insect-induced heart attack, that’s my favorite. Besides, it’s a lie.
If you’re a teenaged male mantis and your dad pulls you aside for “the talk,” you’d better listen. Most romantic encounters end badly for the guys. Mantis maidens have been known to sever a suitor’s head and have it mounted in their dens before he rounds third base.
Fundamentally, I’d rather not share my jeans with a cannibal. My female classmates, who all sought refuge on top of their desks, seemed to agree. Give us an antelope any day.
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Jan Igoe loves the outdoors as long as it stays there. Alligator-wrestling lessons have been put on hold for this lifetime. She wishes everyone a joyous and bug-free holiday. Write her here.