I have . . . memories of camping. The word "fond" had to be left out of that sentence because there's nothing "fond" about those memories, unless "fond" has been redefined to mean "OMG PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME DO THAT EVER AGAIN."
Ahem.
Long ago, in a land far away, my family would travel an hour south of Minot, North Dakota to a tiny little campgrounds on the shores of the Missouri River. We would pitch our navy blue tent amidst a sea of similar tents and campfires (Campfire Bananas, anyone?) and a few signs of civilization. We had a water pump and real working bathrooms, so it wasn't so much "roughing it" as it was "suffering through a few days without TV."
Which, we didn't have cable when I was a kid. TV was stupid without cable back in the olden days, so I never watched it. Really, there wasn't much suffering involved.
And, yet, I hated camping. Or at least I have re-written history to say I hated it. I'm sure that cramming two adults and two children into a tent made for some cramped quarters. I'm sure the air mattress we slept on was less than ideal. I'm absolutely positive that the weather wasn't usually all that cooperative. But, still, there is only one thing I can say that is absolutely the entire reason I hate camping.
Poop.
As in, one clear sunny day, I was swimming in the Missouri River and I saw a piece of human poop float by. It was within arms length of where I was standing, but not for long because HOOOOO! WHO KNEW I KNEW HOW TO SWIM THAT FAST? Michael Phelps couldn't have caught me as I fought my way to shore.
I never entered those waters again. And, to this day, I still hate camping. I know it's illogical. I don't care. Camping is poopy, dammit. I don't need to relive it to know it.
Imagine my glee when Alexis and Mr. Husband conspired and decided to buy a tent.
Oh, yes, they did.
I made it really very clear that I wanted nothing to do with their shenanigans. I like climate control and sleep and comfy beds and, wait, did I mention that I like sleep? I don't imagine that much sleep would happen if my night were filled with pooptacular nightmares. That's what would happen if I slept in a tent, you know. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder would rear its ugly head and I'd be forced to relive that horrific day over and over and over.
No thank you.
My resistance resulted in the two of them adapting their conspiracy so that it was a bit more reasonable. They decided to camp in our very own backyard. To that I say, GOOD LUCK. There shouldn't be any poop floating by back there, but there are herds of deer that walk through, more toads than I want to think about, and a lovely collection of stinkbugs. I made it very clear that they were welcome to enjoy the great outdoors, but I'd be sleeping in my own bed, oh and take the dogs with you, pleaseandthankyouverymuch.
So, they did.
They camped outside Friday night and they were kind enough to take the dogs with them.
They left me in the house. Alone. Well, the cats were there, but the cats don't follow me around snorting and snoring and farting and generally grossing me out like the bulldog does.
You guys, THEY LEFT ME IN THE HOUSE BY MYSELF.
I got eight whole hours of uninterrupted sleep. No kid wrapped around my head. No dog butts in my face. No flailing man twisting the covers into a useless ball of suck. No snoring. No kicking. Just beautiful, sweet silence.
It was the greatest night of my life. I know that I'm a loser for feeling that way, but I don't care. IT WAS AMAZING.
I love camping now. All it took was for me to get to sleep in my own bed.
