Yesterday, my co-worker and I took a group of kids on a pro-social outing that consisted of a rousing game of Zombie Apocalypse, which, is a game that my co-worker made up completely on her own.
The game required that we draw straws to determine who would be the original zombie, then that person counted to 100 while the rest of us scattered amongst the rocks, boulders, and sagebrush that made up the terrain of our chosen playground. Once the count was complete, it was the zombie's job to hunt us down and tag us with a wiffle ball, at which point we also became zombies and joined in the hunt. The game was over when there was one man (or, woman) left standing.
In the first game, I was the second person to become zombified because I lack the ninja goat DNA required to allow me to scale limestone rock faces and the speed necessary with which to outrun an eleven-year old child pretending to be a zombie.
Live and learn.
Because, in the second game, I was the winner due to the fact that I can hide in a rock crevice like nobody's business.
I hid out in that crevice for a solid forty minutes while every other person involved in the game joined the zombie hoard. Then, I waited another twenty minutes for the hoard to declare defeat before revealing myself.
I was pretty proud of myself despite the fact that I didn't win a damn thing for being the last man (woman) standing.
Hey, at least I got bragging rights.