According to the Zombie Survival Guide, I am woefully ill-prepared. I don't have a crossbow. I don't have an armored car. I have a stupid dog that will bark and draw attention to us and my house will suck to defend.
(But where am I going to find a house on stilts for sale on the bald ass prairie?)
I'm sure that when I've mentioned these concerns before, you probably laughed and thought I was joking. But I'm not. I really do worry about what I'll do when the dead walk. I really do lay awake after I wake up from a nightmare, wondering whether it would make sense to build a perimeter wall.
Because if I'm worrying about that, I don't have to think about spending another day in a workplace I loathe. I don't have to dwell on how small my boss makes me feel, when he used to be a friend and all-round good guy but has somehow slowly turned into a selfish, uncaring asshole. I don't have to think about how I might turn into that same person if I can't find another job soon.
If I'm running through the mental exercise of how many cans of food I'd need to wait out hordes of the undead, then I'm not thinking about my stupid broken uterus. I'm not stressing about my self-imposed deadline for baby-making, which is horrifyingly close. I'm not gnashing my teeth about not being able to get in to see a specialist for months, someone who might not be able to fix me but at least could tell me my options.
If I'm considering a weapon for close-range combat with a reanimated corpse, then I'm not considering the range of human horrors this society could inflict upon my son. I'm not stressing about things in his future that are years away, like what school to send him to and whether to drive him everywhere and how he'll react to peer pressure. I'm not letting myself think that his weird toddler quirks might be signs of something more.
If I'm planning and worrying about something that will never happen, then I am not wasting time bemoaning things I have little to no control over.
The other day I ditched on a coffee date with my friend Fashionista, because I was so tired and crabby and I just didn't deserve to be interacting with people. She told me I was allowed to have an 'off' day, I have a lot of stress. I said I didn't think I had any more stress than anybody else.
She said, "I think you do."
And while I still don't think I have any more stress than anybody else, I'm willing to concede that yes, indeed, I do have stress.
I mean, I can NOT find a half-decent machete ANYWHERE.