There are times when I love living in Australia, but occasionally I want to tell this country to stick it up its arse and take off.

This usually creeps into my head when you accidentally touch a cane toad or someone still uses “gay” as an insult (ah homophobic slurs: the repulsive wart-riddled pest of the mouth). They’re times when you’re incredibly grossed out when your instincts are screaming at you to pick up a golf club. But sometimes you have one of those near death experiences that make you wonder why our ancestors would choose to survive here.

And one of those moments include being surprised with a huntsman roughly the size of a Kraft cheese single crawling across the inside of my windshield while driving at 100 kilometres an hour in the darkness.

I’m talking a sizable, venomous creature being within 30 centimetres from my face. My face what I use to see pictures of dogs. It’s where I put food. I need my face. So, even though huntsman spiders aren’t typically aggressive, I reacted with a jolt. And when you’re driving a wide-set family sedan in pitch black at a great speed, that’s not good.

It’s about here where I feel the need to assert my general non-hysteria over spiders. In fact, I’ve always seen myself as one of their allies. I’ve carefully released them outdoors with the paper and cup method. I’ve moved them out of the line of fire of a life-ending stream of tap water. I have, on occasion, nodded to the corner of a room housing an eight-legged creature like one would a The Town Johnno on the street (that’s usually coupled with a “how are ya mate?” in both situations)

In fact, I don’t hate the creatures so much that I can rattle off a list of my top three fictional spiders:

Charlotte, obviously: this soothing, kind soul was introduced to me by my Year 2 teacher, who wore a cardigan draped on her shoulders and made us start the day with a rhyming prayer despite teaching in a state school. Her insistence on reading Charlotte’s Web to my class is probably why I’ve been able to summon the patience required to not burn down whole apartment buildings in arguments. It taught me things, and not just was salutations meant. In my eyes, I was the useless, wining piglet and my teacher was this figure of calm wisdom. I liked her so much I didn’t even emphasise the “CRAP” syllable in her last name. At just eight years old, that’s almost an impossible feat. And I think Charlotte had something to do with that too.

The Black Widow from A Bug’s Life: this is another no-brainer. This spider was voiced by Bonnie Hunt, who you’ll recognise as the warmly-sarcastic mother from every family comedy that never fails to make you feel loved. Even as a spider, that walking beam of sunshine radiates a nurturing sass. She tames the big dung beetle with a shoelace whip (just for show) and then tending to his “owie” with a Bandaid. There’s a shot in which you see her making small talk with an ant at a party saying “…and that’s how I became a black widow, widow” and chuckles. That’s a spider you can invite over for cake and vodka.

Miss Spider: This was another important spider in my life. A pivotal character in James and the Peach, she taught me about kindness. Her story taught me that if you’re not a little prick, you’ll likely be repaid down the track and will get to sleep in a really cool bed suspended in a hollowed-out peach. She was dark, she was mysterious, but she was loving, and Frenchly alluring in a way that makes you question your sexuality. It’s of no surprise she was voiced by the great Susan Sarandon.

Now that I’ve cleared that up, back to my story.

After making a swipe at my stowaway, it scuttled out of arm’s reach and settled off into the dark corners my sagging interior provides. By the time I reached a safe place to pull up, the little bastard had tucked himself away out of sight. So I had to keep on home, which unfortunately was about two-and-a-half hours away.

I have to admit that it was a little touch and go for a while there. Between checking to make sure the spider wasn’t laying eggs in my ear and scanning the dashboard for more threatening fauna, I could hear faint taunts from the bogan in my brain. It had stopped screaming the lyrics to Working Class Man just long enough to call me a wuss for reacting the way I did to a mere bug.

You see, I like the fact that being an Australian means you’re kind of used to creatures of almost demonic appearance which can casually end your life or, at least, leave you with a face so disfigured it looks like a team of plastic surgeons attempted rhinoplasty with their feet and steak knives. Danger is our thing. It makes us look cool to city slicking foreigners and being a classic Aussie larrikin in the face of imminent mutilation might just earn you the highest honour any Australian worth their stubby holder can achieve: an interview with Karl Stefanovic.

Perhaps this is what makes us react so casually to a gigantic spider or murderous snake. We’re probably all freaking out on the inside, but we really want to keep up the Crocodile Dundee image we’ve earned purely by being able to survive this long in this death trap. So we give a wink, make a joke and punch a shark in the back. I think we all like to see a bit of ourselves in the crazy bastard Australian characters we grew up with – from Mick Dundee to that sick puppy from Wolf Creek. We all want to be loose unit Strayans who can boot a stonefish away while wearing thongs and without spilling a single drop from the stubby in our hand.

I personally like to think of myself as the kind of batshit crazy that people both admire and use as an example to their children of what not to be when they grow up. I want to be the subject of legend and cautionary tales, like Nicole Richie with old boots and high-waisted shorts.

So the fact that I did freak out hurts more than the barbs of a jumping cactus. While no one else saw it, I know I’ve let my country down. I shamed my heavily sock-tanned father. I will never earn the respect of Karl. And because I didn’t careen into oncoming traffic, I have to live with that.