It’s the time of year when I go away for a few days of insanity, also known as my annual kung fu retreat.
Actually, it’s not so bad. The first year was intense: three workouts a day peppered with meditation periods. By “workouts” I mean I fought for my life as I was attacked by the other eight kung fu masters attending the retreat. It was HARD, and yet it was fantastic. I came away from that weekend a markedly better fighter.
The next couple times I went weren’t nearly as life-changing for me as that first one, but they were still studded with moments of greatness. We’ve practiced hand-to-hand combat, knives, guns, and eskrima sticks. We’ve laid by the pool, gone for nature walks, and had cookies and milk by the fireplace.
We watched a scene from a 70s action movie. It turned out my instructor starred in it—as the bad guy. He wore a white onesie and had an Afro that’d impress Shaft. He also choreographed the scene, which was awesomely cheesy in the best way.
Barbara’s cookies. She kicks ass, on the mat and in the kitchen.
One year Phil (a seventh degree black belt now) brought his guitar and asked us to give him a word, which he’d then turn into a song. I gave him defenestrate.
The last day of the retreat, Andre makes us a pancake breakfast. He always exclusively makes me a Mickey Mouse pancake. What good is eating a pancake if it’s not shaped like Mickey?
We discovered one of the other masters, as a child, had a fear of spontaneously combusting.
I’ve even got visuals:
How many kung fu masters does it take to set up a tent?
My luxury accommodations for the long weekend.
Kate attack! Eskrima sticks. I’m the one in red.
I’m looking forward to the weekend. I’m only a little concerned, because I received the itinerary today and there was no “shuffleboard” or “dance party” on the schedule. But I’ve already talked to one of the other masters and we have the situation in hand.
Insert devilish grin here.