In a Pinch: How I Survived Being Attacked By a Hermit Crab

Hermit crabs can be classified as my biggest fear, right behind Aphid getting hit by a car, not getting a job, and Wal*Mart after midnight. I know it sounds wimpy to be scared of a tiny sea-creature that you might see on an episode of Spongebob, but hermit crabs just aren’t my thing.

On one of our annual trips to Panama City Beach (see earlier blog post), we decided to kill some time by shopping at Alvin’s Island, which is basically a glorified flea market. Take 45,000 tacky souvenirs, stamp Panama City Beach on them, put them in a warehouse and there: you have Alvin’s Island.

I typically lose interest at… oh…about 17 seconds after walking in the door. They sell clothes, but it’s usually only the cover-ups with a well-endowed woman’s body cartooned on the front, so the place just isn’t for me. So as mom and Baylee were checking out the inflatable Orca whales, I made my way over to the humongous hermit crab habitat.

Hermit crabs come in all different sizes and colors and after watching all 10,000 of them crawl all over each other in the hermit habitat, my curiosity got the best of me.

“One of these would make a great gift for Tom,” I thought to myself as I picked up the black hermit crab with Spiderman painted on his shell.

I grab him between my thumb and index finger and walk over to where they have the cages. And then I feel it.

The hermit crab has the tip of my index finger in his claw. And it hurts. Really, really, really bad. I whisper bad words as I quickly scan the room for Mom.

I find Mom and Baylee and quickly explain my predicament. With her motherly instinct kicking in, Mom grabs the hermit crab by the shell and pulls with all her might.

“OWWWW MOMMMMMMMM!!!!!!” I scream as the hermit crab remains tightly adhered to my finger. People start to notice our suspicious behavior.

We try for several more minutes to get the crab off my finger. We even attempt to break his stupid, scaly arm so we could just throw him back in the tub and get the heck out of this hell-hole almost unnoticed.

“Maybe we should call Dad,” I say as I fight back tears. He had stayed parked under his umbrella reading a James Patterson novel. Tears always win with me, and so begins a full out sobfest.

“Ashlee calm down, we’ll get him off…Let’s go up to the counter and ask the cashier what to do.”

“Mom, are you kidding me? NO. Stop. Don’t touch me!” I yell as I pull on the crab as hard as I can. The harder I pull, the worse it hurts. Mom grabs me by the arm and leads me up to the front of the store. By this point, people have DEFINTITLY taken notice, and a small crowd has gathered to gawk at the teenage girl with the hermit crab stuck to her index finger.

Believe it or not, cashiers at Alvin’s Island are not required to undergo training for what to do if a hermit crab gets stuck on a customer’s finger. So the first thing the Latin Maria Carey look-alike behind the counter does when mom shows her my finger (which has lost all blood flow at this point) is scream.

**Read in Spanish accent**

“OHMIGAD. Is that thing stuck to your finga? OHMIGAD, Jerry, come look at this! Has this ever happened befoor?”

I’m too humiliated to answer. Mom takes over for me.

“It just seems to have clamped down on her finger…Do you think you have anything to maybe pry its claws apart with? Maybe a pen would work?”

“OHMIGAD! Your finga is all white, hold on let me get the first aid kit!”

By now, I have no shame. Fellow customers have formed a complete semi- circle around me and are offering tips on how to get the hermit crab off. None of which were working….

The Mariah Carey cashier grabs my finger and uses a nail file to try to pry the stubborn crab’s claws apart.

“OW OW OW! He’s pinching harder! Stop! It’s not working,” I say.

Minutes pass. Many people offer their hermit crab expertise. More minutes pass. And then, out of the blue, Mom says to the cashier as a last resort in an attempt to avoid the Emergency Room…”Got any rubbing alcohol?”

And so, after drowning the crab in alcohol as the whole store watched in amazement, the hermit crab finally relinquished its stubborn grip on the small portion of my finger, which, by the way, looked like it was about to dis-attach itself from my body.

Ultimately, the crab got what it deserved, a place in the trashcan. Mom grabbed a few items off the shelf and bought them, mainly because she felt guilty about her 17-year-old daughter causing such a ruckus in the store and holding up progress.

We arrive back at the condo where my dad greets me with some anti-bacterial ointment and a band aid.

Instead of a hermit crab with Spiderman painted on its shell, Tom got a T-shirt and a good laugh at the thought of his girlfriend shutting down the entire store because she had a hermit crab stuck to her finger.

The end.