A month ago, I was 100% sure I could never fall prey to a charismatic cult leader. I just didn’t think I had it in me. You wouldn’t guess it from a glance, but there’s a rebellious thread running through my genes that expresses itself in a million subtle ways. It’s the reason that, 20 years after reading that scene in A Wrinkle in Time where the little boy is punished for not bouncing his ball in sync with the government’s pace-setter, I still purposely walk out of step with whatever canned music is lulling the rest of the shoppers into a state of rhythmic grocery meditation. So the idea of getting to the point where I could give over my agency to the cult du juor seemed unthinkable.
Until recently.
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