My husband totally gets me. He said he’s buying me this super-classy cup for our anniversary. Which is tomorrow. Yup, 21 years of
putting up with wedded bliss with me. How lucky can one guy get? Feel free not to answer that.
I married a guy who loves being outdoors. And my idea of the perfect outdoor experience is, well, refer to the cup. I love being outdoors. I love enjoying the outdoors. I however do not enjoy wearing, smelling like, sleeping upon, or pooping in anything outdoorsy.
Growing up, my family’s idea of camping was a 30-foot motor home in an RV park with full hook ups. My dad was constantly annoyed by all of us. So the second-floor walk-up on wheels was his way of accommodating my mom’s desire to get out, while limiting exposure to the dirty, loud, messy little fuckers, known to some people as his kids.
My husband is a real camper. A tent camper. Tent campers are either students, or psycho outdoorsy people. Both of whom tend to have a lot of weed. Though my husband never had any. He’s always been an anomaly. Weed is also known as breakfast for most tent campers. If I were them, I’d go with crack. These guys are nuts. Seriously. They dig holes to shit in. Swear to God, people. Maybe the weed helps here? And when they’re done laying cable, they put their used TP in a bag and carry it to a trash can. And the trash can is sometimes several day’s hike away. I feel the need to reiterate. They carry bags of used toilet paper around. Sometimes for days.
People, used TP is not meant to be touched by human hands. This. is. wrong. I would not want to be the guy who has to walk behind the guy carrying that shit. It’s called toilet paper because it’s supposed to go into the toilet. Think about it.
My one experience with backpacking was… life-changing. I went with my husband, who wasn’t my husband yet, on a backpacking trip in the Sierras. Yes, I was still trying to do the “I like the shit that you like” thing. However, I’m not a deuce on the loose kind of girl. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s not like I make a conscious decision in the matter. I can dig a hole and stand over it with my ass in the wind until the cows come home. But the cows will just be like, “Girrrrrrrl, pull up yo drawers That shit ain’t happnin.” (Don’t ask me why the cows in my head have a ghetto accent. I don’t question the cows in my head. They just do what they do.) Anyway, some people just cannot pit-shit. Seriously. I’ve never been able to pinch a loaf in a public toilet. Ever. I’m broken.
So the shit-that-you-like-I-like weekend was a bust. It was the four-day weekend from hell. Only to be rivaled in hellishness by the infamous Christmas at the mother-in-law’s of 2011. Another story for another time. Let’s just say, I would have preferred camping. And we’ll leave it at that for now.
I’d be lying if I said camping was totally without its merits. There is one good thing. It’s big fat excuse for a junk food bonanza. I don’t know why. It seems like it should be a time for healthful, clean eating. But instead it’s like a smorgasbord of shit that’ll eventually kill you. With no guilt. Which in hindsight is probably why our motor home always smelled like death and Fruit Loops. Good times.
I’m a grownup now. And I can eat junk food whenever I want to. Reminds me of one of my favorite movie quotes. “I can eat a box of cookies tonight. Can you do that? No. Because you’re nothin’ but a fart-faced kid.”* Since I can eat junk food whenever I want to, I see no reason to go camping. I can polish off an entire bag of Cheetos. At home. Don’t go getting all judgy. My logic is solid. I have a clean, flush toilet. And I don’t have to tote my used TP around like some freakish episode of Extreme Hoarders Sierra Hikers. Enough said. I’m not saying I Cheeto-binge. Often. But I don’t need to go brave the bugs, lack of sleep, dirt and lackluster toilet accommodations to get my fix.
I still love the outdoors. I love visiting the outdoors. But when I see snakes or bugs… or a pit toilet… I can run back to my car and head to some place with a cushiony chair and an umbrella drink. Preferably on a patio.
Fortunately my hubs gets me.
*The quote is from Kicking and Screaming with Will Ferrell. Hilarious. Rent it.