If you’re my mom (or that one person in Tajikistan that pops up on my stats page every day) then you’ve read all of my posts and have probably noticed that I’ve referenced The Walking Dead more than once.
That’s because it’s often on my mind. In fact, at least once a day I think: Gee, the zombie apocalypse really seems like the place for me. I even fanaticize about all the places I would go—like Saks and the Chinese Buffet.
Sometimes when my baby refuses to eat I panic and think she’s going to get scurvy. Then I remind myself that the baby on The Walking Dead can’t possibly eat every day and she seems just fine. How absurd, right? I mean, who gets scurvy?
I know what you’re thinking: If you want to live in a world where someone might eat your face then why not move to Florida?
It’s not the same.
As the mother of an infant, I’m convinced that I’m just one world-ending, cannibalistic virus away from utopia. Look at all it offers:
- Makeup remover is probably pretty scarce in a zombie apocalypse so it’s totally fine to wake up looking like the head in the jar from the Silence of the Lambs. (WARNING: ONLY CLICK THE LINK IF YOU DON’T MIND LOOKING AT HEADS IN JARS.)
- Same thing goes for a Lady Schick—giving me a 24/7/365 day excuse for not shaving my legs.
- No matter how much baby poop and vomit I have in my hair there will always be someone wearing his large intestine around his neck to trump the smell.
- Work is closed! Never again will I have 2 minutes to the get the baby dressed, then redressed, then dressed again after our daily diaper blowout on the way to daycare. (And yes, escaping from a pack of ravenous zombies in 2 minutes would definitely be easier.)
- My baby refusing to eat will actually work for me.
- Zombies will have eaten all of the most annoying moms because, well…someone will have fed them to them.
- The pregnancy 15 will be cake to shed thanks a steady diet of couch crumbs and nothing. (Did someone say cake?)
- It’s A-OK to look like you just crawled out of a grave.
- If the zombie apocalypse ends and I make it through with my stomach on the inside of my body, it will be totally acceptable to celebrate with the economy sized bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Ok, that’s it. I’m done waiting for the apocalypse to live the dream. Tonight I’m turning off all the lights, cuddling up in a pair of homeless sweatpants and warming a dusty can of Chunky soup over a pile of burning sticks for dinner.
Actually, maybe I should wait. My husband will think it’s Thursday.