Saturday, March 7, 2015


I am not overtly trying to scare people. Really. But surely I do. In the grocery store, I avoid the cereal aisle. No need to horrify the three-year-old in the shopping cart whose sole focus should be manipulating his mother into adding a box of Lucky Charms to the cart. (What the hell is muesli anyway?) That child needn’t be distracted by my ghostly face. And, truth time, I needn’t hear his unregulated voice say, “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man’s eyes?” (If only parents could teach their tots the art of the whisper. So much more essential than shoe tying.)

Yes, I am aware of my tired eyes. Beyond tired. If there were a film crew in my area, they’d hire me as a zombie extra. Even if it’s a movie that has nothing to do with zombies. Why pass up the opportunity? Just let the zombie walk through the stable in “The Black Stallion” remake or the labor movement exposé on migrant farmers. Be revisionist. Zombie mash-ups are all the rage.

Okay, so I’m getting a tad carried away. (I love that word. Tad. I declare it the word of the day. Somebody try to trend it on Twitter…after you slog through my rambling blog post.)

The eyes have had it. I am going through a graver than usual sleep challenge. And the effects are terribly unsightly. All that work to maintain a youthful body goes unnoticed. Puffy, saggy, coon eyes upstage firm pecs. I may have to borrow Shia LaBeouf‘s paper bag. If only the eye slits weren’t so large.

And now you tell me I have to adjust my clocks. I have to move them ahead. Lose an hour of sleep. Or, more precisely, an hour of scheduled sleep time. You can’t cheer me up with the logic that there will be other zombies in my midst, at least for Monday and maybe Tuesday. It’s temporary. They’ll adjust. And, really, their dark circles are mere shades of grey. I’ve got football-player blackness under my eyes.

Perhaps that’s it. I must adjust the zombie look. Buy a helmet. I’ll be the fifty-year-old football wannabe. Never mind that I never figured out how to hold that wonky-shaped ball. Never mind that I’m two decades beyond any passable impersonation of a jock. And never mind that no one EVER called me a jock, no matter how far back I go in my scrapbooking brain.

Oh, hell. It is Shia time. Pass the paper bag. I’ll wear it well.

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