Well, I felt a bit like that last Monday morning. Albeit, I was not straddling an amniotic fluid filled copper bath with Robert de Niro inside. And I was not topless. Or sweaty.
You see, last weekend was rather a maelstrom of emotions - actually for both Wonderful Man and me. Although possibly at different ends of the spectrum. On Saturday morning, early, Wonderful Man came into the kitchen assuming the expression one might wear at the sickbed of a dear friend.
"Dills, I think we've lost Rosie."
WHAAAAAT? I streaked (no, don't get excited, I refer to speed not attire; I was still in my onesie) through to the bathroom and there she was, curled unnaturally at the base of her log, half on her side, left legs crushed underneath her and her right legs flailing pathetically in the air. Looking very very sorry for herself. Cue tears and upset, frantic googling to find out what on earth was going on, and Wonderful Man being very sympathetic and lovely but at the same time, I am sure, nurturing a hope that the blasted tarantula had gone to meet its maker and now finally perhaps we could get a NORMAL pet like a guinea pig. Or a small rabbit.
But it was not to be. Having scoured Google we left Rosie to her own devices, having been reliably informed from @TarantulaDude and @SpiderFreak that she was not in fact about to shuffle off her mortal coil; far from it, she was only about to shuffle off her mortal carapace (skin, in layman's terms).
"Nah, don't worry man, she's just shedding, give it twelve hours and she'll be right"
Okay. Twenty-four hours later and Rosie was still half-in, half-out of her shell, rocking slowly back and forth and looking for all the world like she was stuck fast. "Dilly, leave her! She'll be fine!" admonished Wonderful Man when he saw me looking furtive with a pair of tweezers.
And you know what? He was right.
On Monday morning, very early, I scampered into the bathroom, desperate to see how my little Rosie Posie was faring. Had she managed to free herself from the carapace? Was she still half-in, half-out and in need of tweezering? Or was she - gulp - curled up and dead, her eight eyes sightless?
Well, no, in a word. My gorgeous pinky-orange coloured Rosie was now a glossy black (except for her fangs which were a delicious tangerine orange) and busily exploring her surroundings with her brand new skin. A little smaller, a little more petite but (given her show of bad temper when I reached into her aquarium to change her water) most definitely ROSIE.
Welcome back, my girl.
