Anxiety. Dread. Terror. Repulsion. The cicadas are coming for my face – soon – and I am not okay.
My friend Google and the fearless Margaret Atwood offered some advice this week. Here are five suggestions and strategies, in case you’re also feeling extreme Cicadaphobia as the month of emergence approaches…
1: Relocate before the first cicada emerges, so this doesn’t happen to you:
Have you heard about the “Zombie cicadas” we may encounter this year? From CBS News:
“Some of the cicadas… may have come in contact with a fungal pathogen called Massospora cicadina, which makes them hyper-sexual. The sexually transmitted fungal infection turns them into so-called “zombie cicadas,” with a chalky, white plug erupting out of their bodies and making their genitals fall off. Cicada expert Matthew Kasson says it’s not yet clear how the fungus impacts other wildlife, animals or humans.
I’ve heard Santa Fe is nice.
2: Experiment with exposure therapy.
Things I’m trying:
Ordering plastic cicadas from Amazon to hold in my hand.
Taping an extra-large image of a cicada on the refrigerator.
Changing my phone and iPad’s home screen.
3: Get curious.
I learned from Treehugger.com to be grateful that we won’t be facing the “hairy cicadas” that emerge in some other places (“15 Baffling Cicada Facts.”)
A So-Bad-It’s-Good guide to this year’s cicadapocalypse can be found in Time’s “Animated Guide to the Rare 2024 Cicada Co-Emergence.” This article provides a helpful map of the anticipated horror zones.
“Cicadas are Delightful Weirdos You Should Learn to Love,” Smithsonian magazine alleges. I’ve been intoning these words when I see an image of a cicada or even THINK of a cicada: “You delightful little weirdo!” I try to do this with a smile on my face and even a little chuckle.
Which leads me to Strategy 4:
4. Self-Brainwash.
Imagine Yourself as a Tree.
Apparently cicadas don’t see very well. When they see you, they think they see a tree. A tree is where they feel both safe and sexy. Dive-bombing you is a colossal error on their part, but it’s just a mistake.
I look like a tree.
You delightful little weirdo!
I am calm like a tree.
5. When all else fails, turn to poetry.
Cicadas
By Margaret Atwood
Finally after nine years
of snouting through darkness
he inches up scarred bark
and cuts loose the yammer of desire:
the piercing one-note of a jackhammer,
vibrating like a slow bolt of lightning
splitting the air
and leaving a smell like burnt tarpaper.
Now it says Now it says Now
clinging with six clawed legs
and close by, a she like a withered ear,
a shed leaf brown and veined,
shivers in sync and moves closer.
***
If Margaret Atwood can see the beauty and the joy, perhaps I can too.
***
Post Script: Axios says this year won’t be so bad. They say 2089 is the year to fear. Here’s another good site with detailed scientific information: cicadas.uconn.edu.
Post Post Script: If you end up feeling inspired to Help the Scientists, you can send your photographs of cicadas and where you spotted them to cicadasafari.org.
Great (and beautiful) blog–informative and funny. I look forward to the sound of summer insects and frogs! Don’t know how many cicadas we might have around Birmingham. We weren’t a red dot, but still imagine their sound will join with the others. And finally, I may need to buy that book of poetry. Peace, LaMon
I’m always so happy to hear from you, LaMon! Thank you for all. Xoxo
You are too funny, Jennifer! And now I’m dreading, too. See you in Santa Fe.
I’m thinking so fondly of our road trip to Camp Greystone… let’s hit the road to Santa Fe, Anne!! Xoxo
Lord save me from Zombie Cicadas
You and me both!! Xoxo
heebie-jeebies!
Om…
So I will be 134 when the true cicada horror arrives. There’s something comforting in that!
Haha!! I’m hot on your heels! Xoxo
Come to Bhutan! We don’t have any Cicadas here! Love, Linda
You never know who might show up on your doorstep, Linda, with a FULL SUITCASE!! Xoxo
Bug funny ♀️
Delightful! Adorable! Funny! Doing as MUCH as I can to brainwash myself!! Xoxo
I LOVE everything about the cicada phenomenon—the sounds (the close-by buzzing and the distant roar), the dive bombing, the little empty shells. So fascinating to me that they know it has been 13 years and it’s time to come up to the surface! And they don’t bite, or sting, or smell bad (not really). They don’t make you itch. And they aren’t here for long, or all that often. And they help us mark life events in 13-year increments. Where were we in 1972, 1985, 1998, 2011….?
Would you believe I’m kind of enjoying them too, now that they’re here? It feels like a miracle. Xoxo