I'll start with the fact that I bought an app for my iPhone a few weeks ago entitled, "Zombies, Run." This is one of the myriad of examples (like my long forgotten Tae Bo videotapes, Callanetics and my latest, the still in use Kinect Zumba game) of me trying just about anything to keep me motivated to get my rear off the sofa and exercise.
Because really, I despise sweating. I do.
Unfortunately, because I have no discernible metabolism anymore, I must. (That is, I must if I do not want my backside to be two axe-handles wide. And I do not.)
So having read a review of the "game," I bought it. And used it.
The premise is this: You are "Runner 5," and your helicopter is shot down near a township stronghold that is defending itself from the hoards of zombies that now inhabit the Earth.
...I can't believe I just typed that sentence. I actually considered (briefly) deleting this entire thing and continuing my life as if I were not the biggest dork ever to dork.
Anyhoo, the app works with whatever iTunes playlist you want to work out to (I'm listening currently to the Rock of Ages soundtrack - fun!) and interjects the game throughout. For example, it'll tell you that the zombies are twenty meters* behind you and that you'd better start running, NOW. The first few times, the app, coupled with my overactive imagination and the fact that I was running along the uninhabited creek near our house almost caused a series of heart attacks. This chubby, out-of-shape white girl has no business running. No business at all.
Yet, I kept at it, because the game is sort of fun. Thankfully, it doesn't end when the zombies get you; if it had, I'd have been a goner in the first ten minutes of the first mission. The game continues on as if you hadn't just got your brain gnawed on by the undead, but you lose all the items you've collected for your imaginary township in the game. That's the price you pay, evidently.
So this morning, I awoke at an ungodly hour (I refuse to think Jesus actually liked 5 a.m.) and went for a run. Or a jog. Let's face it, you can't call what I do running. It's at best a fast shuffle. In any case, I'm doing my thing, exercising out in the empty fields north of my house. It's peaceful there, and there are lots of birds and woodland creatures and so forth.
Let me set the scene:
Even though this is about four hundred yards* from my front door, there's no one around. I'm all alone except for the horned toads, birds, and the odd turtle. Nothing I can't handle. This morning, I was in pretty fair form; I actually escaped my first zombie hoard. Then voice through my headphones said, "Good job. No! Wait, look out behind you!"
I didn't actually look, because, as I stated, this is a game. Supposed to be fun, right? A distraction to keep me going. I had just slowed to a walk, glowing with pride from my triumphant escape of the walking dead when I caught a LOT of movement out of the corner of my eye.
I'm not going to lie, I screamed.
Like a little girl.
Who was being chased by zombies.
Only in this case, the zombies turned out to be a herd (hoard?) of whitetail deer. Many of them. A hundred. Maybe two hundred. Or five. It all happened so fast, it was hard to tell. And I honestly don't know who was more frightened, the deer or me.
I know who the fastest runner is, though, and it's not the thirty-something white girl, folks.
I do know that if the zombie apocalypse ever happens, we want the deer on our side.
*Because I am an American and Jimmy Carter's push for us to join the rest of the world didn't work, I have to stop and think how far a meter actually is. Hear this now: There is no time to do Metric to Standard conversions when Zombies are chasing you, FYI.
*This, I know. Four football fields. BAM.