Camping isn’t for me. I am not a camping type of person. Put another way, I am not a happy camper. Anyone who has ever met me would be able to tell within about nine seconds that when someone says “Let’s go camping,” I am the type who is going to schedule a root canal.
Believe it or not, I was once a boy scout. Boy scouts, as part of the inherent insanity of their craft, must go camping. The first time I attempted this, my friend and I pitched our tent and then I excused myself to the nearest pay phone and called my mom for an emergency evac.
Eventually, I did make it through a full night of camping, and I swore I would never do it again.
Then I met the girl. About six or seven weeks into dating Honey Doodle, she invited me to go camping with her family. I didn’t want to go camping. I adamantly wanted nothing to do with the idea and had sworn off of it entirely at the ripe old age of nine. However instead of saying, “Hell no, that’s not who I am as a person,” I figured, if the girl was able to camp, I suppose I could give it one more shot. Besides, the relationship was too new for me to be refusing to participate.
What I really didn’t understand was why my future mother-in-law went along with this camping scheme. I soon found out. Shortly after pitching my tent on an ant hill — because that’s how I roll — I was informed that my future mother-in-law and her three daughters would like to start a fire. However, none of them had any clue as to how to do this, and that’s something a man should know how to do.
Not this man. My history with attempting to start fires is a column in and of itself. But, within about 20 minutes we had the finest toilet paper fire at the camp sight blazing. For about 10 minutes.
If we’re judging manliness by one’s ability to start fires, pump iron or operate heavy machinary, I will willingly give up my man card.
Honey Doodle is a much better sport than I am. However, she is not now and never has been aware of her limitations. Once we had two wild boys, I begrudgingly realized that there would be camping in our future.
My lovely wife suggested we camp out in the back yard a few years ago. It was simple and we could escape if we needed to. I am pleased to report that I made it through the night. Honey Doodle was sleeping peacefully in her bed by 4 a.m.
Most recently, Honey Doodle suggested we pack up the kids in the ‘ol minivan and trek to Kentucky to spend two nights in a conestoga wagon. It had air conditioning, beds, and would by most accounts be considered glamping. The campsite was beautiful. We were right smack in front of a pond, the area we were in was set off from the rest of the camp, and we would have a perfect opportunity to see the stars and commune with nature. In August. In Kentucky.
Let me tell you about nature in August in Kentucky. Nature consists of air so humid and thick that the second you walk outside you’re pouring with sweat. Everything you drink comes straight out the pours in your head. I was not aware that the humidity in Kentucky can be worse than in Georgia — I thought Georgia was the worst. The nature we were attempting to commune with also consists of mosquitos, flies, and a hornet that made its way into our humble abode overnight. Did I mention camping isn’t for me?
In addition to all of that, our wagon didn’t have a bathroom and shower. Those were in an outbuilding. If there’s an outbuilding that ain’t glamping. If I have to walk more than three feet to take a shower, well, it’s time for that root canal again. I tried to be a good sport. I’d like to think I did a good job blending in with the camping crowd. After my shower, I was walking around shirtless just like all the other fine people in the great state of Kentucky. On one of my visits to the bath house, there were two people showering and one person in one of the toilet stalls doing something most people would find unpleasant whilst they are trying to get clean.
Honey Doodle is chronically ill. Chronically ill people don’t handle heat and humidity well at all. God love her, she tried so hard to press on and make it through both nights, but by noon on day two, her body was like a car on the side of the road with thick black smoke pouring out. They have a lot of those in Kentucky, too.
So, faced with an overheating wife and two kids who could neither stand the heat nor find something to do in a small conestoga wagon, we did what any other sensible grownups would do. We packed up the van and drove 200 miles north to a hotel with air conditioning and a television. This is much more our style, and I don’t think we’ve ever been so happy to leave a place.
From the outset, my lovely wife — ever the teacher at heart — wanted this to be a learning experience. What we all learned is that we’re glad we weren’t born in the 1800s.
It’s funny how you can try your best to give things second and third chances only to come to the same conclusions. In my 40s, much like when I was nine, my conclusion on camping is the same. I want my Mommy.
