"Camp" to me means either spending the night watching Showgirls with the commentary track, again, or going to a big house on a lake in the Adirondacks. So why I was so excited to go camping this weekend, I don't know. I think it was the promise of relaxing fun in the wilderness along the river, .5 miles away from civilization, with a big group of friends. In other words, a party in the woods.
For this adventure, D. and I bought a dome tent, a sleeping bag for me, a lantern...we packed crappy clothes and towels and tarps and food and plastic forks and beer and...dang, you need to pack a lot of shit into your car in order to get back to nature. The weekend would include marinating ourselves in DEET, paddling a canoe until our shoulders are sore, using a flashlight to find the bathroom, and of course s'mores.
Then we realized that we wouldn't arrive at the campsite until about 9 PM tonight when it would be dark and thunderstorming. We would rise early in the rain and go canoeing or hang out in our soggy tents. Nope. Not going.
At least 5 people have ridiculed me so far. "You're not tough enough for a little rain?" "Camping is about the camaraderie - you and your friends against the elements!" "That's what nature is all about, chicken!"
To those people I say: SUCK IT.
This camping trip is supposed to be about sunning ourselves on the river, drinking beers, hanging out with 25 other people, laughing at everyone's kids, eating s'mores - not fighting with nature and being afraid of flash floods and lightning.
Salty D. and I have decided to set up camp on our porch. Good times.


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