Tonight I got kicked super hard in the face, and was pressured into hunting for a non-existent spider like I was Indiana Fucking Jones. In other words, it was a regular Tuesday evening in our house.
It started with a request for me to keep Paige company downstairs while she "did gymnastics."
After a little cajoling and a little more alcohol, I agreed. But there was a problem. A spider of indeterminate size and species had been sighted in the area several hours prior, and thus we could only assume it was still stalking the "gym."
I drew upon my deep knowledge of arachnids to assure Paige that the spider--if in fact she had even seen one at all--was not poisonous and had vacated the premises; and there was little danger that it remained at large lo these many hours later.
My assurances fell on deaf ears. Paige enlisted me in a thorough audit of the "gym" area that grew so tiresome, I threatened to close the gym entirely, and only then did she agree to call off the hunt.
What came next was worse than looking for a missing spider though, because what came next was a swift kick to the underside of my chin from someone the size of a foal, whose leg was moving at 30 mph as she attempted a reverse round-off.
"OW!!!" I screamed, and briefly thought that the kick had done serious damage. I took a minute to assess my ringing ears and numb jaw, and sat there quietly for a few minutes more until it passed.
Paige felt terrible of course, and asked me repeatedly if I was okay, to which I responded angrily that this wasn't an Evander Holyfield grudge match.
But when she saw I was fine, she began crying. I thought how sweet of her to cry in sympathy and sorrow for kicking me in the head, but no. Her tears were tears of anger that SHE TOLD ME TO MOVE BACK AND I DIDN'T MOVE BACK AND IT WASN'T HER FAULT and so on.
With my wits about me, I thought fast about how to put an end to this whole activity once and for all. "LOOK!" I pretended to look surprised and startled.
"It's the spider!"