When C.B. turned to me last night and asked if I might want to travel to northern Michigan and go camping, I let out a hearty giggle. Maybe it was the four glass of wine I had quickly consumed, but I did not think he could possibly serious.
Sensing that he was slightly hurt by my reaction, I asked him many questions (Could I take my ipod? Would there be running water? Could we possibly walk around in the wilderness during the day but sleep at a cozy five-star hotel at night?) to see if I could handle a couple of days in the wild.
He matter-of-factly informed that we would have no access to running water, mirrors, or even toilets. I would have to dig a hole to do number two in. EEEWWWWW!
I was horrified and appalled that he thought I would be willing to dig, squat, and bury.
My idea of roughing it is staying at the Sheraton (I can’t handle static-y comforters, 250-count sheets, polyester curtains, generic art, or really thin towels). The thought of sleeping in a tent (which I would undoubtedly have to help pitch), in a sleeping bag (which I don’t own), and eating canned food (bloat city), coupled with the looming possibility of being mauled by a bear or a gang of raccoons, does not appeal to me at all.
C.B. smugly pointed out that I had gone camping once before. Correction: I went to a Woodstock-esque festival held at a well-lit, private farm in VA, which was attended by 900 people, including 15 of my friends. Although I had to sleep in a tent and go in the Port-a-Potty, that “camping” trip held the promise of doing mushrooms.
Due to this slight discrepancy in our views regarding fun vacations, C.B. is now pouting and muttering stuff about our “incompatibility”. Bottom line: I am most definitely not going camping. If I feel a sudden urge to be in communion with nature, I will (precisely in this order) watch the Discovery Channel, take some Xanax, drink a glass of wine, and then take a long nap on my monogrammed, 500-count Frette linens.