Before I finish this horror story, I should probably give you a quick run update. I’m starting to feel like those of you that are reading along for the running portion of my blog might be starting to think I’m full of hot air.
Actually, I can’t confirm or deny that last part, but I did run 10 miles this weekend. In a row. You know, no big deal.*
*Disclaimer: that was sarcasm. It was a big deal, to me.
I averaged a 12-minute mile, which isn’t quite fast enough to be Katie’s running partner any time soon, but it was plenty fast for me, given how hot and muggy it was.
I did an out-and-back course. Out-and-backs are my favorite because, unless you’re a fan of hitchhiking (which I’m not, though we all know I have the thumbs for it), once you get OUT you have to get BACK. It’s one of the many psychological games I play with myself to get through my runs.
Alright, now where was I on this story? Oh, right. This was happening:
After that crunchy little bugger had darted back down behind the bed for the second and pray-to-God the last time, I was a complete wreck. John tried to reassure me that these things happen, we were in the tropics after all, but that did nothing to calm my nerves.
I left the light on and laid down in bed, but there was no freaking way I was going to sleep that night.
It was about 11pm and I laid there. Eyes. Wide. Open. Until 6am.
And then I got up and did what any reasonable person would do. I snuck into the bathroom to make a wake-up call to the property manager.
I had decided that I didn’t want to tell anyone else in the house and suffer in silence for the rest of the trip. I wasn’t trying to be a martyr, I just didn’t think it was necessary to traumatize everyone else and make them wonder every night if they were going to get a little visitor dropping by.
I told the property manager what had happened.
She was plenty sympathetic and assured me that the house and its perimeter had been sprayed just days before. It couldn’t be sprayed again this soon, though, especially with young children around, but she said that she’d send the exterminator to set traps all around the house (inside and out).
After the traps were set, I secretly monitored them all day, every day. I couldn’t decide if I WANTED to see a roach trapped in these little cardboard Hotel California’s or if it would be better to NOT see one.
As it turned out, I never did see one. In the traps, in my hair, or in my bed.
But, the damage had already been done.
I spent the entire week in a sleep-deprived daze. I left the light on every night (sorry, love) and hoped that Ambien would help (it didn’t).
The moral of the story? Avoid ground-floor accommodations when on vacation.
Have you ever had something like this happen? I’d love to hear from you!