Pre-camping jitters.
The great outdoors...
Today after work R and I are off into the wilderness for a weekend of camping. I am cautiously optimistic on the outside but on the inside a little more to the cautious, well no, nervous side. We're not even really , 'real camping' as my outdoorsy stepsister would put it. She can be an asshole about this because I have a knack for pissing her off too.
Anyways, we're car camping this weekend, and frankly I'd rather do that than hike into some godforsaken place where there is no restaurant or golf course.
I hate camping. I hate the mess and cold of it all. I don't care for bugs, and I'd rather chew my own arm off then consume another hot dog again in my life. I also dread waking up in a humid and warm tent for three mornings running. It would be different if R wasn't 6'3" and I was a little more delicate than I happen to be. I'd rather hotel camp if the truth be told, but they tell me these relationship things are about compromise so northward we go. Over the winter we're going to Alberta and staying in a goddamn Hilton.
Because I seem to subject myself to this camping endeavor more often than I mean to, I can see clearly into the future about eight or nine hours from now. When we finally get things packed and into the car and then unpacked and out of the car, I will stand by the car and look at the trees and grass and probably a shit picnic table covered in webs and spiders and shudder and think to myself, "this is my own personal hell". I will immediately notice a spruce bug and imagine there are three ticks climbing up my leg, as well as a bear lurking in the woods, biding his time before he comes to kill me.
It will take me about fifteen minutes to resign myself to this fate and then I will settle down, relax, and drink a box of wine.
Perhaps I'll comment on this Tuesday.
Today after work R and I are off into the wilderness for a weekend of camping. I am cautiously optimistic on the outside but on the inside a little more to the cautious, well no, nervous side. We're not even really , 'real camping' as my outdoorsy stepsister would put it. She can be an asshole about this because I have a knack for pissing her off too.
Anyways, we're car camping this weekend, and frankly I'd rather do that than hike into some godforsaken place where there is no restaurant or golf course.
I hate camping. I hate the mess and cold of it all. I don't care for bugs, and I'd rather chew my own arm off then consume another hot dog again in my life. I also dread waking up in a humid and warm tent for three mornings running. It would be different if R wasn't 6'3" and I was a little more delicate than I happen to be. I'd rather hotel camp if the truth be told, but they tell me these relationship things are about compromise so northward we go. Over the winter we're going to Alberta and staying in a goddamn Hilton.
Because I seem to subject myself to this camping endeavor more often than I mean to, I can see clearly into the future about eight or nine hours from now. When we finally get things packed and into the car and then unpacked and out of the car, I will stand by the car and look at the trees and grass and probably a shit picnic table covered in webs and spiders and shudder and think to myself, "this is my own personal hell". I will immediately notice a spruce bug and imagine there are three ticks climbing up my leg, as well as a bear lurking in the woods, biding his time before he comes to kill me.
It will take me about fifteen minutes to resign myself to this fate and then I will settle down, relax, and drink a box of wine.
Perhaps I'll comment on this Tuesday.
posted by greeneggsandtam | 9:23 a.m.
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