Camping

I am giving up on Princess Camping, or Glamping.

For the first time in close to two decades, I am sleeping on a mat on the floor of my tent, in a sleeping bag, instead of an air mattress that rivals the size of my queen size bed at home, which I usually cover in thick, flannel sheets and a down duvet.

I’m sharing my 6-8 person tent with three other people instead of hoarding the space for myself and husband.

I packed one weekend bag. Just one. And it’s not very big. I’ve packed more just to get ready at a girlfriend’s house for a night out.

We still slaved in the kitchen all week so that we could have amazing meals every day. If it’s going to be cold and damp, we may as well have our spirits lifted with rich, spicy spaghetti sauce and a hearty stew with cheddar biscuits. We brought our French press because mornings without coffee shouldn’t exist at all. 

I packed a lot of liquor. I may not even notice the inclement weather…

We brought games. Our friends brought games. We have a trunk full of dry, split firewood. 

Our campsite doesn’t have flush toilets or showers. I may wash my hair in the lake if I get desperate, but I brought a hat.

I swore that I wouldn’t camp like my parents and yet here I am, performing their exact version of camping. Next thing you know I’ll be growing my own vegetables and using unscented laundry detergent. Oh wait…

 

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