Organized. Fun.

Oh hey, remember me? The riveting writer with an absolutely thrilling life? The fearless, wander-the-wilderness hiker, selflessly gracing the world with my adventures—tales that I imagine are followed by millions of captivated fans. (Say nothing. Leave me alone to have my moment.)

But today, dear reader(s)—whether millions or just the only one—I come to you not with tales of breathtaking landscapes or spiritual awakenings, but with a grievance so profound, so unspeakably horrific. A true tragedy. A violation of my very soul.

It’s about something so insidious, so utterly offensive to my core values, that I can barely type the words without dry-heaving:

ORGANISED FUN..

That's right. The absolute horror. The oxymoron of all oxymorons. Fun should be wild, unpredictable, and—preferably—nonexistent. And yet, against all odds, I have been tricked, hoodwinked, bamboozled into participating in what can only be described as a social nightmare.

See, my new life as a free-spirited, bohemian hiker has allowed me to avoid this nonsense with absolute ease. I hike solo, with groups who either hate fun as much as I do (respect), or with people who know me well enough not to try roping me in to any organised fun nonsense. Or, I hike with my children—definitely NOT fun. Bonding? Sure. Character-building? Absolutely. But fun? Not even remotely.

I do what I want. I roam wild, untamed, and blissfully unbothered. I avoid perky social coordinators like they carry the plague (which, spiritually, they do). Life has been good. Life has been peaceful......until now.

So I joined a group for a planned adventure. It involves hiking, which, in theory, should be safe territory. Hiking is my sanctuary, my soul’s calling, my one true love. And yet, somehow—I still don’t know how, I suspect witchcraft— organized fun slithered its way in. Just like that. No warning. No consent. One minute, we’re discussing trail routes, and the next, the group chat is exploding with messages about this "organized fun" that was going to be included.

I was livid. Seething. Muttering profanities under my breath like a sulky teenager who just lost an argument. My first instinct? RUN. Leave the group immediately, burn all bridges, vanish into the forest, and never look back.

But alas, some of these are people I actually like (I know… I was shocked too). People I’ve hiked with before. People I’d rather not ghost entirely.

So instead, I sat there, jaw clenched, muttering under my breath like a bitter Victorian widow. I even considered messaging the one sane person in the group, begging them to explain why this was necessary.

But in the end, I took a deep breath, unclenched my fists (and my teeth), and accepted my fate. Maybe—just maybe—there will be a fleeting millisecond of actual enjoyment. Time will tell.

But let’s be clear. This can never happen again.