Annie Don't Camp*

This is one of my favorite chapters of my book

*I realize this isn’t grammatically correct, and it’s actually one of my biggest pet peeves when people use don’t and doesn’t incorrectly. However, I just think it sounds funny. Plus, if I ever magically form musical powers and want to start a band, I think “Annie Don’t Camp” would be a totally kick-ass band name.

I don’t camp. In the immortal words of Ms. Karen Walker from “Will & Grace,” the only stars I’m sleeping under are five stars. Unless you’ve got an RV as big as a house or some sort of fancy glamping operation, it’s a safe bet I won’t be joining you in the middle of the woods.

My husband, on the other hand, has already hiked the 1,200-mile Ice Age Trail of Wisconsin. It’s a feat that required enormous tenacity and endurance, and I still can’t quite wrap my head around the enormity of his accomplishment. I once hiked 7.5 miles of it with him, and I was completely miserable. Not only were mosquitoes constantly buzzing around my head, I ended up with seven wood ticks on my socks. And I found wood ticks in my car for days afterward. Since I generally like to limit the time that tiny insects suck blood out of me, I’ve decided that hiking in the woods isn’t my gig. My husband, on the other hand, would also like to hike the Appalachian Trail someday. In case you were wondering, that would require about four months straight of sleeping in a tent. When he asked me if I would join him, I could only answer after my five-minute long spasm of crying laughter.

“Yeah … we can’t even flip a mattress together without getting into a fight. I don’t think we want to test the waters with mosquito-infested trails, steep mountains, minimal showers, and actual tent camping. For four months straight.”

Okay, to be fair … yes, I’d visit him along some points of the trail (preferably the flat-terrain parts and the part where we’re really close to New York City). So it got me wondering … where did I get this aversion to camping? It’s not like I’ve even tried it that much. But then it hit me.

Jellystone Campground.

That’s my earliest (and last) camping memory, and from what I can tell it was completely horrifying.

How do I know this? Because I have photographic proof!

Exhibit A: Here I am at Jellystone Campground, merely 1 year old, getting a lift from my daddy (who’s clearly rocking that ’70s mustache).

All seems cool, right?

Exhibit B: Cut to five minutes and a transfer to a backpack, when I encountered a dinosaur-sized menacing bear!

Now to the outside world, Yogi is just a normal-sized bear. (Well, normal-sized bear costume.) But to this day I still remember him as a giant grizzly, ready to come and snatch me away from my dad. And we already know how shoddy the child protection gear was in those days, so I wasn’t trusting that makeshift backpack my dad had me in. Yogi could have easily torn that things to shreds in seconds.

So apparently sometime after that tragic meet-and-greet I decided I wanted to run around a bit and not stay anywhere near my family. Frankly, I think I was suffering from some post-traumatic stress symptoms after encountering the giant bear. Either that or I was in my terrible toddler stage, and just wanted to run away. Constantly. I don’t know, you decide … but anyway, my parents must have gotten a bit tired of chasing me, so they tried this creative solution.

Exhibit C: 1970s Child Restraint

Yep, that’s me in the family car. One end of a rope tied around my waist, the other end tied to the steering wheel. I look pretty happy to be playing inside the car. I must have then started doing something wrong (beeping the horn, perhaps?) because later I was banished to outside of the car, where I could still roam on my leash … at least within a 15-foot radius.

I can only assume that those traumatizing events had a direct effect on my distaste for camping to this day. Oh, and maybe the fact that I like daily showers, a comfortable mattress, and a bug-free room.

After all, I’m no dummy … in fact, I may be smarter than the average bear.