I received an e-mail from a friend in California extolling the delights of camping. She proudly described her ingenuity in preparing a dozen ice cream filled cones, packing them with dry ice and finding them frozen and in tact several hours later when she arrived at her designated site and served them to her grandchildren. I admit to being impressed with her resourcefulness but I’m also bewildered as to why she would go through so much trouble when ice cream could have easily been served to her in a bug-free, air conditioned ice cream parlor.
I confess. I’m not into camping. What I love is the idea of camping. Being outdoors under wide open skies, drawing in all that glorious fresh air and listening to nature’s sweet consort, certainly sounds heavenly, but I’ve had to face the reality that I’m too much of a prima donna to accept everything that goes along with those amenities. Things like ruining my manicure while pitching a tent, trading in perfume for bug spray, sleeping on the cold hard ground, walking a half mile to pee, and searching for an electrical outlet for my curling iron are not on my list of Favorite Things To Do.
I did it once….couldn’t wait to go. En-route to the camp site a bird smashed into our car grill and remained glued there, for the entire three hour trip. I imagine he tired of flying and thought he’d hitch a ride to his destination. Obviously he hadn’t thought it through.
And then it poured and poured and poured. I sympathized with what Noah had to contended with. Here I was in this confined area with one wet foul smelling dog, two tent leaks, three irritable tent mates, and an infinite number of elusive mosquitoes.
I wanted to sleep in a comfy night gown but my seasoned camper friends laughed at that idea and pointed out what a wimp I was. They opted to sleep in sopping wet jeans and I, being totally intimidated, followed suit and was miserable.
Well, actually, I only thought I was miserable. Real misery didn’t rear its ugly head until the wee hours of the night when I found myself wandering blindly through the frightening darkness, in a torrential storm, in search of some godforsaken Public Pee House.
The next morning our little makeshift chairs sank into four inches of mud as we attempted to burn wet kindling and create a flame hot enough to solidify egg whites and kill at least some of the trichinosis in our bacon.
I learned something crucial about myself that weekend; My favorite kind of sleep-away adventure must include four walls in a five star hotel. I still love nature, but discovered that it’s best viewed from hotel and cruise ship balconies.
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