Camp

Me, and a friend camping it up.

Every once in awhile Mark mentions that we should go camping. A little over a week ago he again suggested that we go with some friends of his. Now if he were talking about throwing on a feather boa, and prancing down Wilton Drive, I would say no. But he's talking about packing up and going to someplace out in the sticks, where we would be sleeping on dirt. Again, I say no.

"No, we wouldn't be sleeping on dirt. They have cabins at this campground."
"With running water, electricity, air conditioning, a big recliner chair, satellite television, and a king sized bed?"
Silence.

I camped out a lot when I was a kid. I was a boy scout, and later in my hippie days I did my fair share of camping. The point is that when I was a kid, I was resilient, and in my hippie days I was so stoned I didn't know I was uncomfortable. I'm a shade over sixty years now, and I want things to be as comfortable as possible. I figure that as I age my body will start really falling apart, and nothing will feel right. I want to enjoy as much comfort as I can before that happens. So I didn't go camping with Mark and his friends. Good thing too. That weekend was cold, with some rain. This weekend his friends are home sick with the flu.