Wow. Ten entries on weird ways I might legitimately meet my end! Well, or amusing examples of how my psyche leaps to the worst case scenario.
What can I say? My mind is a psychedelic trip without the messy drug habit.
Case in point:
I was walking across the tarmac today at work – yes, my subconscious tried to kill me at work again – when I noticed an ambulance adjacent to one of the Southwest gates. This was the second time in a week I’ve seen an ambulance – no, third! I just thought of another – parked outside a Southwest jet.
Hey, at least it wasn’t United.
So, there I am, pushing a rolling rack of long sleeved Portland tees across the tarmac as fast as I can – we sold 118 in two days – so our stores were looking a little naked today. In the back of my mind, the theme to 30Rock is playing at an insane pace.
Duh-duh da-da-da-da dum-dum da-da-da-da-dum on incessant repeat.
The faster I walk, the faster the music plays.
I’m approaching this unlikely and probably unwelcome (to at least one person) airplane/ambulance pairing and a thought leaps unbidden to the front of my mind, “Ugh. Some poor bastard Carrie Fishered”.
Speaking of too soon.
I acknowledge some appropriate empathy elbowing its way past my other snarky thoughts about the same time I register something flit across my peripheral field of vision as I continue walking.
Duh-duh da-da-da-da dum-dum…
“Great. Zombies.” my mind involuntarily concludes. Because: of course.
Out of all the myriad ways to die on a tarmac, you’ve managed to come up with loose tigers and zombies. Not getting sucked into a jet engine or run over by a runaway luggage cart.
Tigers and zombies.
Man. I gotta stop drinking Chablis at lunch!
Like I’d drink Chablis.
But, on the overthinking this hand, it’s not hard to see the corollary between tigers, zombies and reality.
What? It’s not.
Tigers are obviously the meanest cat on the planet, who I have the thankless job of feeding on the daily.
Wow. Zombie eyes. Go figure.
Then there’s the zombies. Obviously airline passengers. AKA: the reason I’m on the tarmac in the first place. It’s way easier to maneuver my way around airplanes and luggage carts than it is to push my rolling racks through a crowded concourse filled with people who have managed to slightly overcome their default speed of idle. If I want to get shit done, I take them out of the equation by hitting the tarmac. God help me if it rains.