Growing up we took very few vacations that included hotels and swimming pools. I thought it was because my dad got too grumpy sitting in a tiny room with three bed jumpers and no homemade food. I realized as I got older that we were poor. Not scary poor or almost homeless poor, but über cheap vacations poor. That meant vacations were called camping in the woods for a week every summer. Or in the desert or in the local canyon. It didn't seem all that vacation like to me.
You may be one of those outdoorsy people saying "I love camping, what is this crazy person talking about?". To you I say, please find another more uplifting, outdoorsy blog to read. This one ain't it. Also, if you loved camping, I can assume you never camped with my dad while being related to him. Not related? You loved camping with my dad. He was that fun outgoing guy by the lake who invited everyone up for dinner and drinks around the campfire. What you missed out on were the 5 am wake up calls and his inability to control the anger he felt when the awning wouldn't roll out. You didn't get the joy of him deciding to cut the trip short and make everyone pack up because he wasn't having the time of his life anymore.
My dad wasn't the only reason I hated camping. It was so fucking dirty and there was no where to hide from the various flying insects that climbed into your tent, up your nose or onto your hobo dinner. I prefer not to have to set up my "room" on vacation or try to get my pajamas on while being hunched over a sleeping bag with a flashlight stuck in my mouth. Where is the fun? I also don't enjoy sitting in a boat for hours waiting for a fish to bite a string that I have to hold the entire time. Nor do I love it when the fish bites and I am forced to watch my father induce blunt force trauma to its skull before we rip its guts out from the asshole on up. Take me back to school. I hate peeing in porta potties, I hate looking ugly for a week, I hate smelling like fish guts and I really hate eating fish with the fucking bones still in it.
As an adult I have camped with my father. Because clearly I love torture. It's not what I consider a vacation. My mother always made meals and packing look so easy that when I was in charge of it for my kids, I felt like I had been deceived. It took me two fucking days to pack enough food, clothing, bug spray, toys, blankets, water, snacks and alcohol for all of us. For a weekend trip. When we get there it's time to set up a tent, unpack everything, make dinner, clean up dinner before the bears come eat my face off and then make a feeble attempt at getting my kids to sleep. Nightmare. I need a shower everyday, I want to eat food that someone else makes and I have no interest in sleeping in 15 degree weather. I never sleep while I'm camping. I can't. The bone chilling temperatures and howling wolves keep me up all night. My mind wanders to the hundreds of chores I have to do the next day...on my "vacation".
Vacations are supposed to be relaxing. I work enough when I'm at home that I want to spend my week away sleeping in a comfy bed someone else makes, reading by a clean pool, and eating inside. These days, I have a strict one night only camp rule. I do it for my kids, who have been brought up in vacation condos with lazy river pools and arcades. They think camping is the most exciting outing of the summer. I count my blessings that it isn't the only one.
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