Have you heard about the invasion of the spotted lanternfly?
The first time I saw a spotted lanternfly, I didn’t know what I was looking at. I was sucking on an iced coffee in my hometown of Collingswood, NJ. It was both my first purchased and iced coffee since the beginning of the pandemic when I came home to my parent’s house, so, yeah. I was feeling good. Sunshine, espresso, commerce. In the words of Austin Powers, “Yeah, baby!”
I was admiring the signs of peace and love and Black Lives Matter that proudly covered the gates of the Collingswood Presbyterian Church when I spotted a bug just as proud. I had never seen a bug like this before. She was trotting along outside the church in her Sunday best (which truthfully it was a Saturday but let me have this).
Despite the one summer I captured, kept and ultimately (accidentally) killed lightning bugs—along with the years I spent cohabitating with mealworms I fed to my leopard gecko, Leo— I’m not a fan of bugs. Especially big ones. And this was no little lady. Had she been a spider or some sort of beetle, I would’ve definitely peed my pants. But I was urine-free and mesmerized.
This bug was beautiful! Her wings were as catchy as Carole Radziwill’s closet. Her confidence was as intimidating as a Bethenny Frankel insult. I half-expected her to do a sassy spin and tell me “Even though I’m a bug, I always dress to impress!”
I started filming her on my phone. I overlaid the dirty beat of Radio Slave’s “Another Club” and bam! I posted that hot bitch to my Instagram story. “People are gonna love this!” I thought. Not quite.
“Kill it!”
“Die, bug, die!”
“Murder that bitch!”
It turned out my beautiful bug was the notorious spotted lanternfly that up until then I had only heard rumors about. You see, the spotted lanternfly, while native to Asia, is an invasive planthopper bug that had recently made its way to the Northeast. And the reason everyone had their murder pants on about her was due to her nasty habit of destroying crops and trees. The spotted lanternfly was technically a pain in the ass. But all I saw was a hot piece of ass.
It didn’t matter what I saw though. The people wanted her out. In fact, it’s been recommended to kill any and all spotted lanternflies you, um, spot. Set-up traps, destroy the eggs, squish, splat, that’s a wrap on their ass. I couldn’t understand how we were split about masks, climate change, Black Lives Matter but miraculously bipartisan on the decision to Kill! That! Bug! What kind of world is this!?
I didn’t immediately share the popular, unpopular opinion of the spotted lanternfly. Instead, I sympathized with the bugs. Heck, I related to them. Spotted lanternflies and displaced thirty-somethings are really not that different.
Both of us suddenly found ourselves living somewhere we didn’t belong. We were taken out of the comfort of our homes either by Hertz or an overseas shipping freight and plopped into the suburbs of New Jersey. We were outsiders. But we were outsiders who had no interest in blending in. We didn’t want to sit in our discomfort and we certainly didn’t want to show it. No, we grabbed it by the balls. We reversed it and we owned it.
When you’re a thirty-something suddenly living in the town you grew up in, there’s no other way to approach the situation except with an obnoxious confidence you can’t control. We roll our fears of running into our exes, our disappointments with our career paths, our sudden loss of being able to masturbate to abandon into a giant ball of “I could give AF.” I wasn’t sucking the sap out of trees, but I was sucking the life out of my parents.
My obnoxious confidence was my defense system. I didn’t have my normal life and routine but I still had me. And like the spotted lanternfly, me was one sexy creature. I understood their need to show off. To strut. Every walk I took around town was an opportunity to be seen. “Air pods? Check. French Bulldog? Check. Way too sexy of an outfit for a Tuesday night? Check. Pheromones? Check, check!” Some of us want to destroy trees, some of us want to destroy our exes.
How could I get mad at the spotted lanternfly for their invasive nature when I spent every day posting selfies and videos to my Instagram story in an invasive attempt to not be forgotten? “Hiii! I’m still here! Look, I’m eating breakfast! Now I’m dancing in my backyard! Like! Fave! Retweet!” So yeah. If I had the power to cover a tree in a bunch of me, of course I’d do it.
But like any good home invasion, mine was short lived. I’m back in my comfort zone, in my apartment, in my city. I’m no longer an outsider and I’m no longer dressing to impress anyone but Ricky on the stoop. My confidence is back at its normal levels (somewhere between Barely Give AF and Give AF).
I’m glad I left South Jersey before having to kill a spotted lanternfly (and before being killed). I wish my bugs were able to do the same. I wish my bugs were able to realize that while it’s important to make the best out of a bad situation, it’s equally as important to know when to leave. Make a scene, turn heads and then GTFO. Obnoxious confidence only works so long. Use it sparingly, use it wisely and most importantly, use it before your ex turns your dead body into earrings.