My name is Lucy.
I’m, well, there’s no sugar-coating it; I’m a zombie.
Synonyms for my current state of being might include words like undead, the reanimated, the Living Dead, undying, immortal… take your pick.
What’s that you say?
You wanna know what it’s like to be… dead?
That’s okay; you’re not being rude for asking.
(I mean, not exactly.)
Lots of girls want to know.
(Heck, I used to want to know, too.)
And nowadays I’m not shy about telling them, either.
So I guess I’ll tell you, too.
You wanna know what it’s like to be dead?
Step outside on the coldest day of the year – no fair if it’s above 30-degrees out and bonus points if there’s actually snow on your front stoop – and stand there for, oh, say an hour.
That’s all; just one hour.
60 little minutes.
Now, don’t rush through this hour like it’s some kind of multiple choice test, either; own it.
Own every stinkin’ minute of it.
Own the first minute, when it’s still “fun” to be trying this little living dead experiment.
Own the fifth minute, when you’re still warm from inside the house and your down jacket and puffy new socks aren’t quite letting the cold in – yet.
Own the 14th minute, when the “fun” factor has worn off and the cold has seeped in and your toes are frosting over and you’re starting to realize just how long 60 frickin’ minutes can be.
Then own the half-hour mark, when your teeth and chin and even your eyelashes are chattering and you’re wondering why you’re out here in the cold when you could be watching TV with your feet up and a cup of hot cocoa in your hand.
Own the 45th minute, when you are flat-out over it and don’t know how you’re going to last the next 15 minutes.