Extreme Elimination Challenge: Outdoor Edition

You know what this day needs? A beach. A cabaña boy. Piña coladas. A nice big umbrella so that The Boy can hang out with me and not be killed by the sun, as he comes from a long lineage of cloud-loving people.

Alas, no. There will be none of that. There will only be Monday and boredom, two great tastes that go great together.

I should not complain, I guess, as I had a lovely and relaxing weekend. Between pink-collar-wage-slave jobs one and two, it had been some weeks since I had had a day off. Considering I’m a generally unpleasant person at the best of times, this was doing nothing for my personality. This weekend, though, I took Saturday and Sunday off for a non-camping and float trip.

I’m not proud of it, but I don’t camp. I just don’t. If there is a hell and I wind up there, after a hard millennium of having my flesh flayed from my body by cruel demons, I expect the only vacation available to me will be camping. I like looking at stars and trees and various other representatives from this, our natural world, but I care little for being eaten alive by mosquitoes or peeing in the woods.

The whole not liking to pee in the woods thing totally horrifies my mother. She took my divorce like a champ. The fact that I remain childless doesn’t make her bat an eye. My economic insecurity is just par for the course. But my reluctance to pee while leaning precariously against what may or may not be a poisonous plant? That’s indicative of some sort of maternal failure on her part.

Further, I don’t cope especially well with the great outdoors. I love it in principle, not so much in practice. Any woman whose reaction to the unexpected out of doors is to yell “Nature! Nature! Nature!” while flailing is NOT someone who much needs to be out in the wild.

My other objection to camping is one that is endemic to being a St. Louisan, that is, most of our camping is done at one of several campsites within two hours of the Lou. These campsites are, often, absolutely infested with the trashiest of white trash one can imagine. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune of waking up at Bass River Resort can back me up on the following statement: long-term human inbreeding should be discouraged. While the occasional marriage between first cousins might not be the end of the world, over generations it should be discouraged.

My initial adult experience of camping took place under such unfavorable and frightening circumstances about 5 years ago. By the end of that weekend there was literally no one in a one mile radius of me that I would not have willingly killed with perfect glee. Although my hatred of the people who dragged me into that doomed and fetid pit eventually passed, my disdain for camping remains to this day.

This weekend, obviously, was very different. First of all, I have a much better class of friends at 30 than I did at 25. It’s been a busy five years, what can I say? Second of all, this trip did not involve any of the major commercial camping killing fields so popular among Those Whose Family Trees Have No Branches. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, my significant other on this trip is not a total fuckwit. There is nothing more exhausting than having to worry about the idiocy of someone with whom you are involved. Since The Boy is a pretty stellar traveling companion and all-around thoughtful guy, it took a lot of the dread out of the situation.

This weekend was a camping/float trip in belated celebration of The Roommate’s birthday. Because she is a thoughtful type, she ensured that I had a place to stay that involved window screens and, more importantly, indoor plumbing. Consequently, I got to enjoy much great company and a moderate amount of intoxication in a lovely natural setting with very little of the actual “nature” getting on me.

Overall, I would count the weekend a success. There was a wardrobe malfunction—the hook that holds the swimming suit top in place finally suffered a failure of structural integrity, snapping in two while paddling the canoe. Hysterics ensured, and fortunately my friend had a very brave little safety pin who managed to keep the girls in check for the remainder of the trip, surviving even the trip on the rope swing.