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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to evolve. I think you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the old dog is receptive and eager for knowledge. As long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was mistaken, and strive to be a more enlightened self.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have struggled with, frequently, for my whole existence. My ongoing effort … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be realistic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. Including on three separate occasions in the previous seven days. In my own living space. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining a standard level of composure about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to engage with any myself, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the general area as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (lest it pursued me), and spraying half a bottle of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, automatically, the least afraid of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I produced frightened noises and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my method was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its existence before I had to re-enter.

Recently, I visited a pal's residence where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the window frame, mostly just stationary. To be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a female entity, a girlie, one of us, just chilling in the sun and overhearing us chat. It sounds quite foolish, but it was effective (to some degree). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic did the trick.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the sensible justifications not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I am cognizant they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way imaginable. The vision of their numerous appendages carrying them at that alarming velocity causes my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that multiplies when they move.

However it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that taking the steps of trying not to have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, trying to remain calm and collected, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has actually started to help.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that move hastily with startling speed in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, does not justify they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and motivated by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and taking it outside” stage, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.