*Warning: spoilers ahead. Also irrefutable proof that something's wrong with me and I spend my time thinking about ridiculous things. Also, extra irrefutable proof that Matt has really earned the title "Poor Matt" because he lives with me and puts up with stuff like this in everyday conversation.
Last week I went to see World War Z with my sister. It's no secret that zombies scare the absolute dickens out of me. Yes, I know they're not real. No, that doesn't help. They're still the scariest thing I can think of.
I always watch these kinds of movies while running an ongoing escape plan in the back of my head.
"I would never run around in the streets with zombies. I would take cover. That's how I would survive."
"I would never stop my car when there are zombies, I would run everyone over. That's how I would survive."
"I would head for the hills where my parents live because it's a low population, plus rednecks with guns are handy. That's how I would survive."
But as I watched Brad Pitt fight for survival with a wife and two kids, I was hit with a startling realization.
I have a child now.
I would totally not survive the zombie apocalypse.
The only reason Brad saves his family is because he's some retired big wig with the United Nations and they send a FREAKING HELICOPTER to rescue him. Let's get real. None of us have that kind of pull. Heck, I can't even get the garbage men to stop throwing our bins over sideways in the yard. I have no pull. I have no helicopters. All I have is a small can of dog mace and let's face it, that's not going to make a zombie so much as pause before biting me.
I think that's why World War Z stressed me out so badly. It wasn't the zombies, necessarily, it was the thought of running through the streets in a panic, trying to survive with a toddler in tow. Can you imagine?
"Shhhh... Jane be very quiet. They'll hear us."
"I WANNA SNACK."
"No, shhhhh. Don't talk. The zombies will hear us."
"I WANNA SNACK... UH OH. I POO POO."
Jane also doesn't cotton well to running, or screaming. Yesterday she and I were sitting on the stairwell while I took off her shoes, and a spider ran across my leg. I jumped up, with her, and started screaming and trying to kill said spider with one of her tiny shoes.
Instead of running away , she got all up in the middle of my chaos, patted me and said, "MOMMY, IT'S OK. BE NICE."
And that's how things would end for us.
She would no doubt tell zombies it was OK, and to be nice.
It would so happen.