It's liberating to be a zombie.
I realized this during the fourth annual Halifax Zombie Walk on Aug 15. My family and I were among the hundreds of zombie fans dressed up in ghoulish attire to shamble through the streets of Halifax moaning and groaning with the occasional request for brains tossed in for good measure.
"Usually I have to worry about dark circles under my eyes," my wife Lydia said. "Today, it doesn't matter."
She was right. Being a zombie means never having to say you're sorry for your appearance.
Gag response
The shirt I wore was capable of inducing a gag response without any additional work proved her point. Normally I would never be caught dead in such a monstrosity, but today - well, you get the idea. We all looked terrible and it was perfect!
Mitchell wore grungy camouflage pants and a white shirt that showed bloodstains really well. Sylvia's outfit included jeans she'd worn during a spectacular wipe-out on her bike. Instant zombie pants!
As for Lydia, she wore a long dress that had become her costume after she'd mistakenly put it through the wash.
"I guess it was supposed to be dry-cleaned," she sighed as the shrunken, shrivelled garment hung forlornly on our clothesline.
To fight sunstroke, we each wore wide straw Corona hats despite Lydia's fear that people would think we drink a lot of beer.
"Don't worry," I told her. "We can say we're zombies that shill for the Mexican beer industry."
But no one batted an eye at our hats.
Averted their eyes
In fact, we found it extremely amusing to see how few people paid us any attention. And this was before we reached the walk's staging area at Camp Hill cemetery.
Normal pedestrians - of the living sort - barely gave us a second glance. Or, if they did accidentally catch a glimpse, they quickly averted their eyes.
"No one's looking," Sylvia muttered as she adjusted her lovely bloody headband. Blackened eyes and pale skin gave her face a skeletal look.
"You do look pretty pathetic," Lydia told her, ignoring the social ramifications of the crowd's behaviour.
"I hope that's a compliment," Sylvia said.
"In this case, it is," replied my zombie spouse.
As the walk progressed, I enjoyed watching the police. They did a wonderful job of ensuring that the walk went smoothly, that the zombies obeyed traffic laws, and didn't bite anyone. They did it with good humour and efficiency. Hundreds of undead give you their thanks!
But it was one aspect of the walk itself that was bliss. Being a zombie also means never having to think. No thoughts of deadlines, work, bills, or what to make for dinner. You just stare vacantly, shuffle your feet, and follow the zombie in front of you.
"It was so peaceful not having to think!" Lydia enthused after the walk. "I want to do this again next year!"
atoal@ns.sympatico.ca
