IT’S BECOMING progressively harder to jump out of bed these days, at 46 and a half. Adding to hacking out of throat and lungs the congestion of the previous night, which tends to accumulate while you sleep (which is probably why it’s called congestion, duh), particularly during the cold, cold months, is a couple of inflammed joints almost once a week now, sometimes in the fingers, sometimes in the knees or ankles. Used to be I thought it was because of alcohol, seafood, certain types of vegetables (specifically legumes) and lamang-luob, which I tend to avoid almost entirely now.
But lately it seems I’ve been suffering from these comical but painful situations (think mascots hands and fat ankles and knees) more and more. Usually they subside later into the day, but I don’t always have the luxury of coaxing them into functionality. Unless I imagine it, my eyes prefer to stay defocused and languid the first hour of the day,which is probably not too uncommon for most of us at this delicate age, and these are signs I need to have eyes rechecked, and new spectacles prescribed.
Depending on what I ate the previous 24 hours, I also have to be accountable to my digestive system, and if it was a workday like most days, I manage to be more or less responsible with food intake, not too much, food groups in order, and the result is I don’t spend too much time in the bathroom (belated TMI alert, sorry!).
If however, like today, I just woke up from a (n ANZAC) holiday, there is usually hell to pay. A glass plus of cheap Merlot to help me get to bed, a dish of ice cream which I eat on the sly (quite a feat, considering that esposa hermosa and I share a tiny flat with almost no one else for company; our flatmate and Panganay largely keep to themselves), a glass plus of Coke Zero vintage last week (which I stubbornly drink despite the mortal dangers of dark fizzy), miscellaneous chichirya of local and international origin, and whatever my omnivorous snout picks up from all over the four corners of the flat. And that’s just shortly before turning in.
You can expect the messy results the next day, when I earnestly strive to purge myself of all poisons ingested and resolve to avoid similar behavior, which I happily forget the next evening before a free day or weekend.
Before I forget, I had a good reason for spreading a mini-feast of junk food/sinful food before beddy-bye time, and I’ll spell it out in four words : Walking Dead, season finale.
I wasn’t an instant fan, in the jaded way we all perceive post-apocalyptic zombie thrillers spiced with love-triangle and whacko-killing-fields subplots (at least the gory killing sprees are not gratuitous, you need to kill zombies indiscriminately, and the ratio of mindless zombie to tasty human is about 100:1, conservatively). But because esposa hermosa is so seldom drawn to Kiwi TV fare and this was attracting her like funny cigs to Cheech and Chong (pardon the eighties reference), I found myself watching whenever shift work permitted every creepy Wednesday night.
The acting was good, the plot crisp and credible (in the way having zombies roam a post-epidemic Earth was credible), and I discovered a truth about my young wife : she is as fearless as any modern Pinay, but can’t go to sleep by herself after a ghost/vampire/zombie flick, yet loves to watch the wretched things.
Just a final comment about season finales : don’t you just hate it when as regards resolving plots and consumating climaxes, season finales are anything but satisfying? They are mini-contradictions in themselves : They are supposed to tie up in neat (although bloody) little packages the story arcs of the season, yet are designed to be hanging just enough to hook you into waiting for, and watching the next season ! Now, how annoying is that? It’s an ending, but not really an ending !
The added disadvantage Noel and his little wife suffered was that we had naively prepared to view a two-hour gorefest (there are surprisingly few scenes of zombies munching on human drumsticks, the producers apparently had their fill during the first and a half seasons) that would be the definitive end of the season, and the only possibilities by way of credible ending/s I saw (without sharing such with my companion, who was up to here [point to neck] in stressful viewing) were (1) everybody becoming zombie fiesta handaan, or (2) other survivors or government forces rescuing all our bida (protagonists).
Who would’ve known that in his little group, Rick Grimes (played by Andrew Lincoln) would declare martial law, and that most of the group (around a dozen) would actually survive the zombie raid on their redoubt ? In short, almost nothing is resolved in the finale, except the scuttling of Shane (the main rival of Rick, in leadership and in romance), almost surely to keep us on tenterhooks for Season 3. Argh.
And that’s why I ate too much, slept too little, woke up with the blahs, and trying to finish this before hurrying to afternoon shift. Even when (maybe especially when) TV entertainment is at its best, there is usually hell to pay the morning after.
Thanks for reading!
- happy birthday Panganay ! (ylbnoel.wordpress.com)
- Zombie Reality (arkangyl.wordpress.com)
- Zombie Apocalypse Is Here Already (2ndskeet.wordpress.com)