It’s summer and you know what that means—camping season! Or in my case, “Hell no, I don’t want to come camping with you” season.
I appreciate the offers, I really do. I’m sure you do have a wonderful time reconnecting with nature, star gazing and Kumbayaing your brains out, but it’s a hard pass from me. Call me when you get home and we’ll drink wine in the safety of your living room.
Why do I hate camping? I’m glad you asked! Let me give you a comprehensive, itemized list.
1) I don’t like being food
Everything in the woods wants to eat you. Sure, the chances of a rabid, starving grizzly bear making you its main course is relatively low, but I’ve never seen a bear in my kitchen. Just saying. And even if the creatures with teeth leave you alone, the mosquitos will swarm you. Mosquitos have no f—s to give. They will attack indiscriminately. They are literally vampires. Do I want to come with you to a land of vampires just waiting to feast on my flesh? No, Judy, I really don’t.
2) I like electricity
If no electricity was a such a luxury, Ben Franklin wouldn’t have tied a key to a kite and sought to intentionally get struck by lightning. He didn’t even know what electricity was, but he still knew it was necessary, sitting there lighting candles and saying, “There has to be a better way than this. Let me get my kite.” Flashlights are great for scaring your siblings with spooky faces and for finding that thing you are sure is under the couch. Otherwise, I’m going to need to flick a switch.
3) Cooking with fire seems unnecessary
I’m not a cave man. I use an oven. Okay, I use a microwave. I almost never eat anything on a stick. Plus, I once burnt my eyebrow making pancakes, so I would 100% light myself on fire trying to cook anything beyond a marshmallow. Even Fred and Wilma had appliances.
4) Tents are scary
I lock my doors at home, where most things don’t want to eat me, and where people will hear me scream. Why would I go into the wilderness and sleep in a triangle made of windbreaker? I’m a child of the 80s, I have worn a lot of windbreakers, and just as no one should feel protected in a jacket that folds into a fanny pack, a house that folds into a backpack does not fill me with confidence. It’s just packaging for anyone or anything that wants to get inside, and not nearly as difficult to dismember as the packaging on a child’s toy.
5) WTF is a sleeping bag?
No, I have no interest in trading in my pillow top mattress and comforter for a giant body condom. Every time I try to change positions, I somehow manage to twist myself into some kind of finger-trap like contraption where the more I struggle, the more stuck I get. Years later, people will find me in my burrito of doom, twisted up like soft-serve ice cream. And what if I want to stick one leg out like a normal person? Do you want me to have hot legs, Judy?
So thank-you but no thank-you, I will not come camping with you. If I ever get the urge to become trapped in a vinyl prism in the dark while being eaten, and subsequently set myself on fire, I’ll give you a call. I’ll let you know what you missed on TV.