Tag: camping

I went camping for the 4th of July weekend. As with everything that I get myself into, it was definitely not uneventful. Oh, no. 
I’m going to surprise you all by saying I’m not a real tough-cowgirl-up kind of chick.
Shocking, I know. 
First, I really hate to be dirty. Especially my feet. OMG. My feet. During the summer, when flip flops and sandals are standard, I soak, scrub, pumice, and moisturize my feet to the point of obsession. 
I can’t get in bed knowing my feet have God-knows-what on them, and so help me if even the tiniest speck of dry skin catches on the sheets. 
Ya’ll might as well commit me now. 

Next, I positively hate being hot and sweaty. If I can avoid ever being overheated during the summer, I’ll do whatever needs to be done. If that means blasting my AC and having a fan directed at me 24/7, so be it. I’ll pay an exorbitant electric bill for the sake of comfort any day.
Eventually, though, I do have to venture outside and away from my comfortable 68 degrees. When this happens, swamp ass and underboob sweat is just inevitable. At some point during the summer, I just resign myself to the reality that I’m going to sweat from every crack and orifice, and I just have to deal. 
Also, if I know getting to the bathroom is going to be a pain (i.e. needing to get dressed first, finding shoes in the dark, walking half a mile to the campsite toilet, etc.), I’ll have to go the bathroom precisely eight times in the night. 
Lastly, I’m a germaphobe. If there isn’t running water wherever I find myself to wash my hands precisely every hour on the hour, forget it.
As I mentioned before, this past weekend we went camping. It was at a gorgeous campsite in California. 

While there, the worst.possible.thing that could happen to a germaphobe happened. 
My darling, one-of-kind, beloved boyfriend put the roll of toilet paper-the very roll he took into the Sani-Hut (and don’t even get me started on Porta Poops), and almost certainly set on the pee-soaked floor*- in my clothes bag. 
JUST BURN IT ALL. 
So, if you just ignore all of the above paranoias, I’m a real joy to be with out in the good ol’ outdoors. 
Really. 
I’m being serious. 
Once I procure/figure out a way to wash my hands with actual soap, and if I just accept the fact that my face will be so greasy the bright sun will reflect off it all day long, I’m actually a real camping star. 
I’m of the belief that if something unsavory (like cleaning toilets or setting up camp in 90-degree weather) needs to be done, it’s better to just do it right away and as quickly and efficiently as possible. I can set up a tent, cot, and camp stove in record time if it means I get to sit in the shade during the rest of the camping experience. 
Also, I don’t complain too much. As long as I have s’mores and a summer beer to look forward to later, you will only hear me complain about the heat and my dirty feet a minimal amount of times. 

This past weekend did not deviate from the norm. There was just a little bit of complaining, and a whole lot of loving-being-outside-of-the-city. 

The part of this camping adventure I was most looking forward to was a swim in the pond, because I bought a donut floaty, and I simply couldn’t wait to flail my gorgeous bod atop it. 

The float and swim was simply glorious. I’m a fat chick, but I also grew up going to a lake cabin every summer of my life. I can swim like a fucking majestic mermaid.
It wasn’t until exiting the water, that I questioned our decision to take a dip in a pretty questionable pond. 
The great debate is still on going, because my boyfriend positively swears that what was all over my legs were little worm things. 
No, I don’t care that he dual majored in biology and microbiology, those little effers were leeches.
After positively freaking out and making him run back over the rocks in his bare feet to inspect and remove the vile creatures that were sucking my life blood straight out of my pudgy, translucent legs, my first thought was, “Where else are they?”
Me: “Are these like ticks?”
Him: “Uh, no. These worms aren’t anything like ticks.”
Me: “No, like, would they possibly be elsewhere on my body?”
Him: “OMG. You had one worm on your leg. The other thing was a twig or some dirt!”
Me: “Are you blind?! They were all over my legs!” 
Him: *rolls eyes clear back into his skull* “OK. Sure. They were all over your legs…”
Me: “OK. So, could they possibly have found their way to other parts?”
Him: “No, babe. I highly doubt it.”
Me: “Are you sure? Because if water can go through my bathing suit, maybe tiny water monsters can go through my suit, too?”
Him: “OMFG.”
So, after I was reassured that the worms (leeches) almost certainly didn’t find themselves in my more delicate regions, I felt mentally stronger and more ready for the next camping obstacle I’d likely face (this time it was being eaten alive by mosquitos and the TP incident). 

The struggle is real for an outdoors-loving germaphobe freak. 
*After making it clear my disgust with his dirty deed, he swore up and down that he nestled the TP roll in his underwear and that he most certainly did not put it on the poop-caked floor. I feel just a tiny bit better.