Cicadas in My Pantyhose: Tales from the New Jersey Apocolypse

/

In last week's NY Times Magazine, cicadas landed on the so-called "Meh" list. "Meh" as in, no longer trending, and we don't really care anymore.

Easy for you to say, you black-clad hipster toiling away in a treeless Manhattan. Sure, you can be as "meh" as you want about it. You don't have to look down into their beady little red eyes.They're not stuck on your purse and riding with you to work. They're not dive-bombing your head when you try to take your walk.

You don't open your dresser drawer at 6:30 in the morning and find THIS:

I actually heard it singing inside the closed drawer.

 When they first hit, I was pretty sanguine about it. Bugs don't really bother me (unless they sting) and I was fascinated by their weird, otherworldly singing, which sounded like something from a fifties sci-fi film.I got used to them in my trees, on my deck and all over my car tires.

But I draw the line at my fine washables. After making this gruesome discovery, I called out to my husband with a request I can safely say he'd never heard before: Honey, can you come get the cicada out of my underwear drawer?

Of course, it could have been worse. At least I saw it before I got dressed. . .

 .