There is no shame in being gotten by a zombie. There is some shame in being gotten by the first zombie. In the zombie run yesterday I was caught by the very first zombie I ran into.
It was a divided road, and there were two zombies on the right and one on the left. Like the man in the poem, I took the road less traveled by. I tried feinting right and then zagging left, but it made no difference. I couldn't get around her, and she tore off one of my "flags," which indicated that I was dead, although I was still allowed to finish the race.
In retrospect, my error was allowing myself to become isolated from the other runners; if I'd stayed with the pack, I might've gotten by. She couldn't have gotten all of us. When you're facing a zombie, you need numbers on your side. You don't have a chance if it's mano-a-zombie-o.
I am pleased to report, however, that having been "killed" bought out my inner nobility. I saw myself as a sacrificial victim, offering himself to help save others. I caught up with the pack of runners, and each time we ran into a herd of zombies, I'd shout "Yo, zombie, zombie, zombie! Come and get me! I ain't afraid of no zombies!" The zombies, being highly susceptible to such taunts, would shuffle in my direction. I do not know how many, if any, others I saved, but I am proud to know I made the effort.
Now, I am rethinking my plans for a zombie apocalypse. First off, and I say this in a spirit of public helpfulness, if there is a zombie apocalypse, you probably need to steer clear of me. If past experience is any guide, I will be the first to go.
You tell yourself you're ready if the zombies come, but you really aren't.
No one's ready for zombies.
