The last two mornings have begun with a short jog—not the kind in which you grudgingly force yourself out of bed and into the jogging shoes that will take you out into the surrounding country, but the kind that takes place between bus and train when you arrive at the station and glimpse the large clock hanging on its façade.
While dodging pedestrians and sprinting up escalators (why is the world full of people who do not understand escalator etiquette? the right side is for standing and the left side is for sprinting, damn it) I imagine myself in a zombie apocalypse situation, hoards of the undead behind me just dying (hardee har har har) to feast on my adrenaline-filled flesh.
Would I make it through alive? The odds are not in my favor. Despite my renewed jogging habit, at the top of the escalator I’m out of breath, and all those Hollywood zombies (and apocalypse survivors) seem to be Olympic sprinters.
The way I see it, the zombie apocalypse is as good a reason as any to take that extra lap on the track. We’re all just running in circles anyway.
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