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I am a pretty independent woman. There isn't too much that frightens me. But we all have our breaking point, that one surprising thing that pushes us over the edge and fills our bodies with a fear so strong that we are rendered immobile.Recently, I was forced to stare down the source of my ultimate trepidation.It was after 7pm and I realized I hadn't begun to think about dinner. I was already cranky from the pain in my ankle from jacking it up the night before in Krav. So I hobbled into my kitchen hoping to miraculously find a cooked three course gourmet meal waiting for me. Reality hit quick as I stared into an empty fridge and bare cupboards. I pulled from the depths of my echoing pantry my emergency box of 50 cent macaroni and cheese. I knew there was a reason I had kept that thing around.Just as I poured my macaroni into the pot, I swiveled around on my one good foot to grab the milk and that's when I saw it.A bee.....in my kitchen.It was hovering above me intent on stinging through the plastic covering of the fluorescent lights. At first I thought the worst - I figured it was trying to lay eggs and I imagined waking up to a swarm of baby bees buzzing at my head. I just stared at it. It was so focussed on this one particular square that I was almost mesmerized by it relentless efforts to penetrate the plastic. Over and over again it tried to jam its stinger into the cover and flailed its wings - getting more and more angry. I watched and I watched.And then I freaked out.Over the years I've tackled spiders, roof rats, maggots, flour beetles (don't leave open flour in your pantry for five years) and countless lizards. I'm sure the bile crept up into my throat on some of these occasions, but I never felt this powerless, debilitating fear before. Instead of tapping into that strong independent spirit I pride myself on, I ran to the phone to call my daddy. I begged him to come over and rescue me from this fierce predator. He wasn't having any of that. He told me I was being ridiculous and to just kill it. His thought was to swat at it and as it torpedoed towards me, I could squash out its life with my bare hands. Right, and have the stinger penetrate my hand? Not working for me.My fear was that I would miss and anger it even more and it would go straight for my eyes since I was looking up at it. After much childlike whining, I heeded my father's advice and grabbed a can of hairspray. So there I am in my kitchen wielding a huge can of hairspray, my dad is on speakerphone and I am shrieking so loudly I am annoying myself. At this point, I wouldn't have been surprised if my neighbors called the cops in fear I was actually being attacked.The bee is still compulsively grinding away at the plastic. I aim the can and recoil about 19 times. All the while my dad is on the phone coaching me through this. Now, to his credit, he isn't yelling at me yet, but his annoyance is becoming more and more apparent. I am oblivious to his sarcasm as I am truly gripped by this tension filled apprehension I am feeling toward this bee. By now I have convinced myself that it is actually a wasp and it is about to turn and sting me between the eyes and I am going to have a massive allergic reaction and need to be rushed to the hospital. I saw all those Tom and Jerry cartoons. I know the power of bees.And then I remember a lesson I learned in Krav. A strike can't hurt you much if you don't have any air in your lungs. You can recover much quicker because the wind doesn't get knocked out of you. So, I figure this could work with a bee sting, right? I gather this huge breath and let out this massive gut wrenching primal scream as I take aim with the hairspray bottle. All chaos breaks loose. My dad starts flipping out on the phone because I am screaming so much he thinks a band of wild boar must have found their way into my house and attacked me. He's yelling to find out what's happening, I'm yelling because the bee is flying about in frantic spasms and I am spraying everywhere in my kitchen. The bee lands on top of my refrigerator and I can't see it. I grab a chair and hop onto it - realizing that my injured ankle is taking a brutal beating as it begins to swell again. The bee has found its way to the rubber seal on the top portion of my refrigerator door. But it won't die. It is still flapping around. Since I don't seem to keep much food in there, I figure hairspray can't do too much damage to the fridge. I close my eyes and unleash the rest of the can all over the door seal. The bee finally turns to its back, legs gripping the air as it makes its final peace with Mother Earth.I grab about 50 paper towels and scoop it up - taking one final look at my nemesis. And as it is inches away from my face, the wings begin to flutter. The roar of terror that escapes my lips probably deafened all the dogs in the neighborhood. Still on speakerphone, my dad has lost all patience with his inept, cowardly daughter. "Smash it. Smash it already and be done with it," he bellows into the phone. With my heart racing, I squash it up in the paper towels. The silence is so profound that I can hear the swoosh as my lungs fill with air and the repetitive thud as my heartbeat struggles to slow down.I looked up at my fridge to see the sticky, dripping mess this episode had left behind.My ankle is throbbing. I am sweating. My father is laughing and my mac and cheese has boiled over.