Happy Lollipop Tuesday, Ladies and Gentlemen.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit that this week’s adventure was camping. Almost. Let’s face it: at this point in the game, it’s obvious that I’m a sheltered, awkward hermit who hasn’t experienced life. In fact, that’s kind of the whole deal behind this blog’s existence. And though I was certain that I’d been camping at some point in my lifetime based solely on the fact that I was bred out of the armpit of America, I suddenly realized that all my experiences with tents were in the backyards of my neighbors’ houses.
There was an inkling of camp-age when I went to Ocean City, Maryland for my birthday a few years ago. But a brief stint of rumination recalls a hot tub and hotel that were right beside the “camping ground” and we frequented them often. Then there was the year I was a camp counselor and theater teacher for a children’s performing arts camp in Michigan (I don’t want to talk about it), but those were pretty darn nice cabins and my food came from a mess hall.
So this past weekend, I traveled into the heart of West Virginia to a state park camping ground to eat food cooked on a fire, sleep on a tent floor, and abstain from showers.
And I gotta tell ya – I’m a fan.
I’m in love with food cooked on a fire. I’m pretty sure it can make anything palatable, if not incredibly delicious. Vegetables, scrambled eggs, potatoes, babies – anything. Delicious.
I’m not such a fan of the dewy, awkward, blanket of moistness that accumulates on me while I sleep. I’m not really down with the 4 times I wake up in the middle of the night to adjust the blanket for salvation from sweltering heat or freezing cold. And I guess when I think about it, it would be pretty nice to just have a regular shower that isn’t in a shared half-doored bathhouse a quarter-mile away filled with loud, adolescent girls. But hey, I really didn’t mind all that much either.
I kind of like just being out in the wilderness and staring at a fire. I like that my biggest concern is when the next log will need put on the fire, and I have an excuse to avoid every call, email, or text that could possibly come my way.
Maybe I don’t like camping – I just like being left alone.
Yeah, that’s it. I like being left alone. I don’t care if I have to strip myself of grocery stores, consistent, running water, and a mattress to do so; I am totally into this off-the-radar gig. And since I’ve recently been entertaining the notion of hiking the Appalachian Trail, I fear all the evidence amounts to me abandoning real life in trade for a life amongst the trees. I think right now my level of comfort is somewhere between ‘camping’ and ‘hippie commune’.
Ugh, I just admitted that I’m entertaining the notion of joining a hippie commune.
Things have quickly gone downhill. ♣