Cicada Shells and the Oxymoron

I removed several cicada shells from my hair the other weekend. 

Yes, more than one, on multiple occasions. 

You see, when you spend your whole life as a walking oxymoron, you’ll often find yourself in these kinds of situations. Your children and even your dear husband will find great humor in drawing attention to this oxymoronic character trait.

Hi, my name is Christen, and I do not like bugs.

I realize that I spend a lot of time in an environment that, in fact, contains quite a few insects and the like. I’m fully aware of this. But, alas, I am proof that one can be both outdoorsy and creepy-crawler-averse. It just requires some respect. I respect their boundaries, and they respect mine. Take the large spider that hung out in my cabin bathroom sink on a recent work retreat, for instance. We respectfully ignored one another, and I brushed my teeth in the kitchen. 

And when lines are crossed and personal space is invaded, I simply scream. It’s the natural defense mechanism I was born with. So, naturally, I will use it. Hence, the fascination my lovely children have with torturing their poor mother. 

Sometimes it’s the non-living variety, like the exoskeleton of a cicada perched on my head for far longer than anyone should have a carcass on their head. Other times it’s the live versions of 8-legged, winged, or spring-loaded monsters. Then, there were those strategically placed, ridiculously realistic, plastic creatures that elicited screams, leaving me hoarse. 

I am not unlike the cicada, now that I think about it. I tend to jump right out of my skin as well.

The trauma, I do believe, can be traced back to an incident in my Georgia childhood. When a Palmetto bug, also known as a flying cockroach on steroids, flies straight into one’s long, thick 1980s hair in the supposed safety of one’s bedroom, it can leave a mark. And perhaps a bald spot. 

Or maybe it all began when I was a newly-licensed driver, escorting myself and a couple of friends home from the pool, and a passenger emphatically announces that there is a big spider on my shoulder. Let’s just say, I am thankful I was driving through a non-busy neighborhood and that I had a swimsuit under what I stripped off in the middle of the road.

Then, there was the nest of wasps that attacked me from behind with the force of a knife to the back during my camp counselor days in college. The sound of a buzz can still make me duck and cover.

It could also have something to do with the scorpion once found under my tent that sent shivers through my entire being, even in the Texas heat.

Or perhaps it was the spider that bit me on the left cheek of my buttocks while I was enjoying an outdoor concert, sending me to the doctor and preventing me from sitting comfortably for weeks.

I love the outdoors. I am intrigued by all of God’s creatures, the intricate details, and the beautiful design of the ecosystems. 

However, I do not enjoy bugs. 

Or snakes. 

Or most reptiles, for that matter.

And that’s okay.

I’ve come to realize I don’t have to understand or have a desire to get personal with all aspects of the environment to enjoy being out in nature. 

It's all about respect.

But if you see me, and I happen to have a cicada on my head. Do me a favor. Don’t tell me; just relocate it, will you?

Respectfully to the head of one of my oh-so-clever children.

*Photo from a couple of years ago at New River Trail State Park, where we watched a cicada molt at our campsite.

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