I was told up front that I would be teaching an art class to kids at their community center. What I was not told up front was that I would be teaching a gaggle of sexually-confused, big-boned, nine-year-old huskaroos, intent on kissing me, braiding my hair, and kneading my back into pudding with their loving four-on-one massages. Oh yeah, also not mentioned? Was that “community center” is a euphemism for Jesus Camp. 

(Oh, google images and your search results for “Jesus”. You kill me. We all know He didn’t really look like this; He had a fully attached beard, not a goatee. I mean, really!) 

Neither church nor children have played a large role in my life in the last many years, and adjusting to the week-long omnipresence of both took a concerted effort on my part, especially since I’m not taking any drugs these days besides The Dambien (see below).

By the second day, I found myself hiding behind the conveniently large derriere of a fourth grader, in the back row of the auditorium. Everyone was singing about singing God’s praises while I prayed my Light Monster Java god would cure my narcolepsy. I had already stood and lip-synched at least two contemporary Christian songs and it was only 8:40 a.m., an ungodly hour in my world. So I felt I’d be safe to slink back down and work on my spiritual connection while seated. Bad idea.

Next thing I know this hot young thang on a piano stool gets on her mic and proceeds to ream me for my inappropriateness and, oh, the horror I was inflicting upon our Lord. Obviously I had no choice but to stand at that point, as everyone had witnessed the full capacity of my mobility earlier when I’d sprinted away from my new girlfriends, so I couldn’t very well bend my leg back and act all Lieutenant Dan about it.

I finished out the set on my feet and thought my sins were forgiven, when the head organizer, a petite thirty-something, grabbed my arm. “You’re coming with me today,” she said. There was an unsettling, ominous tone in her voice and something rather terrifying in those excited eyeballs of hers.

I followed her and about four dozen preschoolers into a gymnasium.

“Okay, boys and girls!” she said in a high-pitched, Prozac-tinged voice that belied her ability to get all psychotic with the adults. “Guess what game we’re playing today?!”

Judging by the lack of interest and pantomimed answers, it appeared we would be playing Who Can Pick the Most Boogers.

“We are going to play a very fun game called Tape up the Leader!” she cooed.
I snorted a laugh, until I realized she was looking at me, and that, oh yeah, technically I was a leader.

“Now! Guess who we’re going to tape up?” she squealed.

Blank stares and fingers in nostrils rotated in my direction. I felt the tell-tale signs of a panic attack creeping in.

What happened next may account for my subsequent foray into Xanax and red wine. It may also have something to do with my recently acquired eye twitch.

Again, I was seized on the forearm by a death grip that really just seemed unnatural for someone who looked light enough to perch on my shoulder like a little parrot without giving me so much as a hint of scoleosis, but alas, such is the strength of the Lord. She dragged me to the far end of the basketball court and proceeded to pull out a roll of blue masking tape. Yay! Colors make bondage so much more fun. I stood, as instructed, with my arms at my side as she peeled apart the tape.

I wanted to run, oh how I wanted to run, but this woman had paid for my flight, and really, what kind of twenty-six-year-old runs away from preschoolers and a church lady? A smart one, that’s what kind. But, like the U.S. government, I underestimated how scrappy and determined my opponents were. Unlike our government, however, I ascertained that I would pay dearly and that the throes of war were only just beginning.

Once my whole body, from my neck to my ankles, was bound in tape with the sticky side out, Church Lady pulled out the real weapons in her arsenal.

Let me just take a second here to explain that I have a severe phobia of eye damage. If possible, I would really like to avoid reliving my formative days as a five-year-old with thick glasses and a glitter fairy Barbie eye patch. I go to great lengths to uphold the highest standards in personal eye ball safety. I cannot handle being in the same zip code as anyone who is shooting rubber bands and I certainly can’t handle popping balloons in any proximity to my face.

And so, it was with much horror and trepidation that I watched as the contents of two giant black trash bags were revealed. Out poured countless balloons along with the frightening instructive to, “Run at Nicole and stick them all over her yay!!!”

How this sick little “game” was to bring anyone closer to Jesus besides me, was unclear. In any case, as I watched hoards of toddlers trundling towards me, their speeds topping out at a horrifying 1.7 m.p.h. (though at the time is was all slow motion) I began to pray enough for all of us. I prayed with such ferocity and passion that I could have saved all of our souls and then some. Did the Lord save me? Did he step in by parting the sea of crazed, balloon wielding monsters?

No. They came. They saw. They conquered.

And then just as quickly as the nightmare had begun, it was over. I was left frozen, a festive mummy with multicolored protuberances, while her silent sidekick smiled and took pictures.

The kids began popping the balloons, rubber exploding past my head, gun shot noises echoing throughout the gym. I looked over and saw Church Lady watching me and it was at that very moment when I realized, nothing in life is free.