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I maintain the conviction that it is never too late to transform. I think you absolutely are able to instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the old dog is open-minded and ready for growth. As long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was mistaken, and work to become a better dog.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the trick I am attempting to master, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have battled against, frequently, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. This includes a trio of instances in the last week. In my own living space. You can’t see me, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least attaining a baseline of normalcy about them.

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (unlike other children who are fascinated by them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any myself, but I still panicked if one was obviously in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, almost into the next room (for fear that it ran after me), and discharging a significant portion of bug repellent toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

As I got older, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with dealing with it, while I produced frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my strategy was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to ignore its being before I had to enter again.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a pal's residence where there was a notably big huntsman who resided within the sill, primarily stationary. To be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a girlie, part of the group, just relaxing in the sun and overhearing us gab. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it worked (to some degree). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the sensible justifications not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they consume things like flies and mosquitoes (creatures I despise). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way imaginable. The appearance of their many legs carrying them at that alarming velocity induces my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They are said to only have eight legs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they get going.

However it isn’t their fault that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their positive qualities, has proven somewhat effective.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that move hastily extremely quickly in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and fueled by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” level, but miracles happen. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.