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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to change. I think you absolutely are able to teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the experienced individual is willing and eager for knowledge. As long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and work to become a improved version.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, despite the fact that I am decrepit? It is an important one, a feat I have struggled with, often, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. This includes a trio of instances in the last week. Inside my home. You can’t see me, but I’m shaking my head at the very thought as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I’ve been working on at least achieving a baseline of normalcy about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to confront any directly, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it ran after me), and emptying a significant portion of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or living with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I made frightened noises and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the casement, primarily hanging out. In order to be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a her, a girlie, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and listening to us gab. It sounds rather silly, but it worked (to some degree). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become more fearless proved successful.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they consume things like buzzing nuisances (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace triggers my caveman brain to go into high alert. They are said to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I maintain that multiplies when they move.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that employing the techniques of trying not to have a visceral panic reaction and retreat when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and consciously focusing about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that dart around with startling speed in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, does not justify they warrant my loathing, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when fear has clouded my judgment and driven by unfounded fear. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” level, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains within this veteran of life yet.