Learning to Coexist with a Wolf Spider

I have come to the conclusion that French women don’t sweat.

I, on the other hand, don’t seem to have any control over my personal production of perspiration despite checking the weather report and dressing accordingly. Forty degrees and rainy, you say? Better layer up! That’s what I would do in Colorado. But apparently what one would do on the one side of the planet does not necessarily equate to the other side—similar weather patterns notwithstanding.

What is their secret? They walk nearly everywhere so is their cardiovascular health akin to that of a cheetah? Unlike me, where I must do rhythmic breathing to walk two blocks up a (very steep) hill to get to the metro station without stopping 6 times. Apparently losing 10 pounds still isn’t enough to be ready for a marathon—who knew?

Could it be my hormones are still in whack-a-doodle menopause mode even though I have patches and pills to prevent me from throttling people at any given moment for looking at me the wrong way. I mean, I even left the US as part of my self-care program.

I am in awe of these people.

I see women bundled up in scarves and full-blown winter coats, jeans, and boots, walking down the street and not even a slight sheen on their smooth faces. Even once they stop—to wait for a crosswalk signal or board the metro—nothing. They’re not even breathing hard. They stand or sit and peruse their phones or stare off into the distance.

Me? I begin peeling off layers as soon as my heart has slowed down. Off come my gloves. Then it’s the scarf, which I have, in trying to blend in, wrapped around my neck. I unceremoniously un-wrap it as I dab, embarrassed, at my dripping forehead and temples. I don’t want to take off my jacket because that would expose the trickle of sweat I feel making its way down my spine and dampening my shirt, but I finally relent in search of a cool draft. I shove all those extra pieces into my ever-present canvas shopping bag—only to be redonned when said cooling is achieved to the point of being chilled.

…

In learning to adapt to my new (country) home, I am out shopping for food nearly every day. The French wouldn’t dream of using leftover bread purchased the day before, and while I agree fresh bread is better, I can only eat so much (try though I might).

And Kleenex. I have blown through (literally) 3 boxes (at $3 each for half the size of the American version), and 3 12-packs of toilet paper, with my newly acquired allergies. Between that and sweating, I am a virtual fountain of fluids, which to me, is the antithesis of being French. I feel like a bumbling “’Ricain” (a slang pejorative) with my constant sniffling and pre-school language skills.

I am baffled by the allergies. Having never really experienced them, I have determined that it’s probably a lifetime of being an older American who has consumed a large quantity of toxicity. Between the foods that are deemed “edible” but are illegal here (here being the EU), the capitalistic belief that work and money are virtues and the more you do and have, the better you are perceived to be as a person, and, of course, the current state of upheaval in US politics. Is it any wonder, then, that my body is attempting to expel every last trace of poison?

That was the goal, right?

…

I will admit (now) that there has been a fair measure of “buyer’s remorse” in these past weeks.

“What have I done?” my panicked brain asserted more than a few times as the discomfort of being in a whole new country, alone, with only a tiny grasp of the language, a cell phone, and a few kind strangers to forge my way. Horror stories from friends and FB posts, meant to warn and prepare me, of pickpockets and crime rates floated around my increasingly anxious mind.

Then when the allergies started… “Did I catch Covid again?”, compounding the unease. Covid was my immediate go-to since it was on the rise as I left the country. As the symptoms persisted but a fever never materialized, I consulted with a dear friend who has been an allergy sufferer most of her life. I also Googled about expats and getting allergies. Apparently, it’s common. So while that doesn’t sound comforting, it was. I just needed to know that I wasn’t going to die after waiting my whole life to get here. Anxiety is its own worst enemy.

Getting my suitcase back also helped a lot. For ten days I fretted about the contents and tried to remember all that I had packed within. Now that I know I won’t have to replace two-thirds of my clothing, among other important belongings, which wasn’t a lot to begin with and carefully chosen for the season that is approaching, the actual lack of worry is palatable.

…

But it seems the Universe wanted to make super-duper-cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-pinky-swear sure that I am serious about this move. In its infinite and sarcastically morbid sense of humor, it sent a huge (and I mean the size of a small lime HUGE) wolf spider to the bedroom I have been camped in these past two and a half weeks. Not anywhere else in this fairly sizeable house, but the one tiny room in which I am completely vulnerable for 8-10 hours a day.

I was not amused.

More than zip-lining over a vast rocky river canyon or setting out to sea in a sailboat with just my wits (neither of which I would ever do), I had to come to terms with this arachnid on the ceiling.

I slept on the antique feather filled settee that night—not long enough for even my short frame to stretch out—rather than know this creature was over my head.

I am usually spider-friendly—mostly. I will make the effort to relocate one outdoors when I feel intruded upon, but I will not hesitate to squash a venomous one—and I was assured by many friends this particular variety is a good guy. I still worried that if it cared to join me under the covers I would provoke a (painful but harmless) bite. Or what if it just traversed my face innocently, while I slept, looking for the bugs that are biting me. That alone sent my heart rate skyward.

The next morning after a rather rough night on that uncomfortable piece of furniture, I resolved to not think about it—not let my anxiety about it rule my thoughts and sleep. Despite searching, flashlight in hand, the beast was nowhere to be found. I looked several times.

I’m still undecided whether that is a good thing or bad. Out of sight, out of mind? Noooot necessarily.

I resolved, however, to put it out of my mind. Like all the other “bad” things that “could” happen, I have to weigh the risks and benefits.

I am in France living my dream. That outweighs all of it.