Retreat into Madness Part 1: The Baseless Escape

I may have already mentioned in posts made long ago, that I was always labeled as a "leader" by people in charge of my education. This label never really seemed to suit me, people never listened to what I had to say, and I preferred (and still do) not to actually deal with people, as I found them agitating, and chaotic as a bag of rabid mudskippers. Yet, despite my overt distain for being pushed to take charge, I was still pointed at and told that I should take charge. Eventually I was "persuaded" to attended a leadership retreat sponsored by the Rotary club, boy what a weekend it turned out to be.

The event was held at Newcomb's tennis ranch, which thankfully was only a fifteen minute drive from my hometown, so it's not as though I was to be banished to a smelly Radio Shack in the Australian Outback. Anyhow, I was herded into the registration area on Friday night, I suddenly was overwhelmed with a feeling of despair. I never really wanted to go, but at this point my feelings of wanting to back out reached its zenith. I felt as though I was a Soviet scientist planning on defecting, on my way to the border, only to find that you were being delivered to the KGB, instead of freedom from the Iron Curtain. The darkness only added to the ambiance, with only the soft glow from the building illuminating the silhouettes of the activity leaders becoming me to misery. Unfortunately I was unable to turncoat and run.

Anyhow, the actual retreat was okay when we did activities, unlike the ACTS retreat I went on, we didn't have people tell their personal stories and burst into tears. But, there was an over abundance in pep, which I don't mix entirely well with, especially when I was overly pushed into being peppy as well. The area in which we slept was reminiscent of a World War 2 prisoner camp, as seen in films like The Great Escape, and Chicken Run. So, in a sense it was a cult compound that force fed people with peppiness until they conformed, and smile brilliantly. I had to escape... But though a combination of not having a thorough plan, and laziness, I didn't not escape. Though thinking back I probably could have walked home, it would have taken an hour or two, but the tennis ranch wasn't too far away from New Braunfels, where I lived. Though the prospect of simply walking home in the dark wasn't as exciting as racing a gang of Nazis on motorcycles to the Swiss border. But there was one person I knew of that did escape from the madness that was the leadership retreat.

During our assigned feeding times we were forcibly told to sit with someone different individuals, I'm guessing in an attempt to quash any possible rebellions. One of the evenings I was trying to down some rather watery spaghetti while sitting next to a rather ponderous fellow, whom I had not seen socializing with anyone throughout my captivity at "the ranch," perhaps there was one who wanted to be there less than I? I remember spending the meal at the end of the table having to try and make conversation to the people on my left, for on my right lay a mute beast who decided to be as loud as possible without speaking. So, the meal continued onward with me hearing various slurps and chewing noises behind me, afraid to turn around as I may see a rancor eating one of Jabba's dancers.

Anyhow, after a night haunted by nightmares about a rather large sobbingly eating beast, I continued to the next day without having to see he who is without table manners, for a while. However during a lunch of gruel and capers I looked out the front windows to see a familiar shape placing a suit case into the trunk of a car, then shuffling inside the automated-mobile. By the hammer of Thor! The bastard had done it; somehow he had found a way to escape the fortress of cheery-tude. Had he set fire to the Australians practicing tennis? Or funded illegal snail jousts? It is a mystery that I don't believe I shall ever solve. As he rode away in quiet victory, I turned back to stuff another span of time at "the ranch."