Sunday, August 09, 2009
I have a mixed history with camping. We did it a bit when the kids were little, and I liked it well enough. But camping is a BOATLOAD of work. I would have been fine if we'd stayed at the Ramada Inn and visited the forest, but it was not to be.
But weirdly -and no one was more surprised than I was- last summer I found myself wanting to go camping. I bought a tent that I could put up by myself, a sleeping bag that would keep me warm, a light, and a cooler. I wanted to camp on the solstice, and I did.
This year my schedule has been a little, well, insane is the only word for it. But the old urge to sleep outside has hit again. And the need to do it my way persists. (Seriously, I love this part of being single. I don't have to explain it... defend it... argue for it... or submit gracefully. Camping can be exactly as I want it.
And it's going to be glamping. (I didn't make up this term, but honest to Pete I can't remember where I saw it. A thousand apologies.) Okay, it won't be quite this elegant. I'm not a glamour girl, by any stretch of the imagination. But I'm going to practice early morning yoga outside. I'm going to drink champagne mixed with my orange juice. I am NOT going to eat a hot dog. I am going to bring the green bike of wonderment, and ride around for as long as I want to.
What else would make it perfect? Irish coffee at night around the campfire? Some time writing, while sitting at the picnic table? Walks with my pretty pink camera, taking pictures of whatever pleases me?
There's precisely one weekend available before Labor Day -and I suppose it is now spoken for. I'll be glamping.