Does anyone know what a whip-wish spider is? I hope not, because the only exposure I have to the term is that it yarked up from my unconscious during a dream over the weekend. I actually like spiders, at a respectful distance, but this particularly creepycrawly was more insect than spiderlike — so flat as to be almost two-dimensional — and was, in the dream, fished out from beneath the top layer of my clothing by a friend who identified it gleefully and then put it back on me. (The real-life individual involved has been forced to reassure me repeatedly that he would never, ever do any such thing.) Some of my dreams have a Salvador Dali cast. This was one. It ended with my arriving at the County Board room — a place I know tolerably well, from my misspent forties – and finding that the early arrivals for a public meeting were being led in calisthenics by the Board secretary, a cheerleading schoolmarm type in a sensible short haircut and twinset.
These are the dreams from which you wake wound in the bedclothes and exhausted as if from sprinting.
It must be the allergy drugs. Not only do my eyes itch, but after I spent most of Monday afternoon operating an industrial-size hedgeclipper, half the hedge fell out of my sport bra when I undressed, and the next morning I had furiously itching hivey spots where it had all stuck on. It was either kick-ass antihistamines or the kind of scratchfest that makes people look at you funny.
Most of it’s gone by now. I keep peeking at the welts to make sure one of them isn’t in the shape of a whip-wish spider.