So, I know that I like to present myself as a strong, independent white woman. I know how to use a hammer. I can change the windshield wipers and headlights on my car. I can move household furniture by myself. I will almost always try to do something by myself, because I don’t like to ask for help unless absolutely necessary. I can lift really heavy things. And yet, I am reduced to near hysteria at the sight of a mouse.
Yes, a mouse.
I freely admit it. I hate mice. They freak me out. You know those cartoons of a housewife standing on a chair and shrieking at the sight of a mouse? Yup. That’s pretty much me. Okay, that is EXACTLY me!
My husband, daughter and I were leaving the house earlier tonight. We were going to drop my daughter off at the college for one of her final exams, then my husband and I were going to grab some dinner. I stepped out the front door ahead of the others and began to descent the three steps to get to the driveway, leaving the front door open for the others. Before I had even fully descended the steps, I heard a rustling kind of noise, scrabbling on concrete, and it was very close. I saw a shadow, something small in the corner where the steps joined the wall of the house, and I watched in terror as that shadow scrambled up the step and scurried across the landing, mere inches away from the open door, before running off the far end of the landing. I had started to shriek by the time the mouse had made it onto the landing, my hands quickly clamped across my mouth. That thing had been only inches from my feet!
Of course, my shriek brought both of my sons running to the foyer to see what was going on. They’re just lucky that the mouse didn’t run into the house, because then I would have really freaked out. I can squat 250 pounds, deadlift over 300 pounds, but a mouse will have me standing on a chair, or whatever elevated surface is handy, and shrieking like a banshee, and I’m perfectly okay with that!