Lately, precious moments of my life have been consumed by the fear and resentment of grasshoppers jumping toward my face.
I walked a lot this weekend through the scenic, country roadsides of west central Illinois and, for some reason, large numbers of grasshoppers seemed to specifically collect along the ditches of the newly-oiled roads.
It's easy for my mind to wander--I often day dream while walking. After all, I'm completely surrounded by endless miles of corn fields, tall green stalks guiding every footstep. My Ipod plays the songs I most recently listened to, although I wonder how some of those songs slipped in. I really can't recall the last time I intentionally listened to Clay Aiken's version of Silent Night.
Oh well.
But this peacefulness is instantly vaporized by unidentified flying creatures declaring war on my personal safety bubble. First off, since when do grasshoppers have wings? I'm embarrassed to admit, being born and raised a country boy, that I never quite remembered grasshoppers having the distinct ability to fly? While I know for a fact that they are able to jump very high, and perhaps glide on breeze if lucky, but I'm almost certain that I never saw a wingspan (an impressive wingspan, at that) on what I now refer to as those sick nasty grasschoppers. Times change, I guess.
So, I'll be walking along the road, minding my own business, not causing a bit of trouble or intimidation toward any living (lurking) creature, when all of a sudden this "thing" jumps out right in front of me and nearly hits me in the face. Like an inch from my lips. Gross, right? My heart stops and I spasm a little bit, thinking that it flew in my mouth or was still on me somewhere. After rigorously brushing my body from head to toe and collecting my wits about me, I realized what I freak I was because A) grow up and B) I'm on a road in the middle of a corn field in rural Illinois and, from now on, I need to be more aware of my surroundings, as well as the potential for enormous bugs (or wolves) potentially touching me (stalking me).
OK. It's summer. Grasshoppers are out. Note to self, Ryan.
Now, when I was a kid, I can specifically recall being able to somehow actually catch a grasshopper. In some unnatural, completely alter-ego former state of being, I had the rare superhero power of allowing a grasshopper's spiny, scratchy body and long nasty legs to actually touch my skin and hang out in my cupped hands.
How that's humanly possible, I have no idea, because nowadays the thought makes me twitch and gag, slightly.
Anyway, the grasshoppers of 2008 completely blend into the oiled, graveled road so I'm never quite fully prepared for their ambush. Although, from my calculations, it seemed like for every three (3) steps one (1) would jump out from somewhere ='ing freakish spasm. During one attack, a grasshopper launched into assault and briefly landed on my leg. Subsequently, my knee-jerk reaction was that of being poked with a glowing-hot iron poker. I completely jolted from the oncoming predator while shrieking and psychotically brushing off my leg as if it bit me and injected my leg with venom, giving me mere moments left to live, which perhaps it did.
But lets get back to the wingspan issue. Grasschoppers...who knew about this and then didn't tell me? I observed a couple grasschoppers on top of some prairie grass (they were much easier to see than the ground troops) just flapping in the breeze, holding on for dear life until the very moment I walked by, then, without hesitation, launched straight into the air with their sick wings buzzing and prickly legs outstretched for landing on or around my face, successfully carrying out Operation: Freak Ryan's Shit.
Operation complete.
This is yet another example of a war I do not support.
