My dad is a very outdoorsy kind of fellow. He loves hunting and fishing and camping, so many of our family vacations were camping trips. However, as I have gotten older, I have learned to appreciate the finer things in life, such as beds and showers and maid service.

Feller, on the other hand, LOVES camping. He’s been trying to get me to go camping with him since we started dating, but he didn’t have any definite camping plans until a friend of his invited us to go with them on a big group camping trip this weekend. And because I couldn’t think of any terribly convincing reasons NOT to go, and because he wanted to go SO BAD, camping we went.

And it was fun. It was nice to get away from the house and all the accompanying distractions: internet, Netflix, video games, and I really, really liked the campfires and the smores and the drinking and the sitting around all of Saturday afternoon knitting. Unfortunately, the elevation got to me a little bit, and I had some trouble breathing, plus I was FREAKING EXHAUSTED despite not having done much of anything at all, and that made me a little grumpy.

Then there were the usual camping irritations: the packing and the tent and the driving six hours each way to get there and the screaming children (Lady, I understand that you’re tired, and I’m sorry you didn’t get any sleep last night because your two year old is a screamer, but at a communal campground, surrounded by strangers who are trying to sleep, is not an appropriate time to let her cry it out. I mean, REALLY.) and HOLY SHIT THE YELLOW JACKETS.

We did, thankfully, start out the actual camping on a high note when we discovered that the campground had honest to God actual TOILETS that FLUSH with SINKS and SOAP. No showers, but at least I didn’t have to deal with a nasty ass portapottie or a hole in the ground.

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