Gym. Bug. Breakdown.

An intimate tale of sweat, survival, and six-legged trauma.

So picture this: I'm leaving the gym. Hot, sweaty, slightly feral. My hair looks like I just lost a fight with a blowdryer, my shorts are glued to me in places I didn’t know could sweat, and my vibe is very much “don’t talk to me unless you have an ice bath or a smoothie.”

I roll down my car windows because I’m a delicate little flower who deserves a breeze. You know, natural A/C. Some post-lift wind therapy. A reward for surviving hip thrusts without crying. All is well... until something slaps me in the neck.

I think:

“Hmm. Weird.

”But do I investigate?

Absolutely not. I’m too busy vibing to my playlist and pretending I’m in a fitness influencer’s post-workout montage.

A few seconds later… I feel something tickle my leg.

My bare leg... because I am wearing shorts.

“Oh, my shoelace,” I think casually, brushing it off with the kind of confidence only someone with zero survival instinct would have.

Tickle #2.

Still chill.

Still convinced it's my shoelace being quirky and extra.

But tickle #3… tickle number three changes me as a person.

Because I look down, and what do I see crawling up my bare gym-drenched leg?

Satan.

In bug form.

The biggest, blackest, most unnecessarily athletic insect I have EVER SEEN.

I’m talking six legs, high speed, too many antennae, and a vibe that said, “I live here now.”

AND I CAN’T PULL OVER.

So I do what any mature, capable adult would do:

I scream, slap it off, try not to crash into traffic, call my mom for emotional support (who doesn’t answer... How rude!), then panic-call my grandma and say,

“Gram. I need you to talk to me. I am being violated by a bug and I am emotionally compromised.”

I am swatting, sobbing, swerving, and fully being spiritually wrecked by this demonic bug who refuses to take a hint.

Finally, after narrowly avoiding at least four moving vehicles and maybe one mailbox, I launch my car into a questionable parking lot, fling the door open, and STOMP THE EVER-LOVING LIFE out of that six-legged homewrecker.

I do not say a prayer.

I do not feel bad.

He knew what he did.

So yeah, anyway, I will never drive with the windows down ever again. The trauma is permanent. My shin will never trust me again. And I may or may not now have bug PTSD.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

Bug 0, Me 1.

Barely.