(This gem was sitting in the drafts. You’re welcome for digging it up. This is a part of my camping story)
The worst thing to happen to you while you’re camping would be getting mauled by a bear. Imagine taking your two beloved dogs out for a scenic walk. You stop to listen, to feel, to smell, to see the world in her magnificent glory when all of a sudden you’re about ready to get the worst hair cut of your life.
A close second would be rain.
Today, we woke up to a gentle spit, kind of like when you’re talking to an elderly person with poorly sealed dentures and they’re spewing junk in your face while they tell you about chaffing and trolling the obituaries.
And since I was already wet, I decided to take a shower. I sloshed through the path between the lots and plugged my nose before I walked past the outhouse. It smelled of years of drunken chili poops.
I was the first one at the comfort station and had the privilege of using the cripple stall. It housed a beetle that was big enough to be King Kong’s head lice, but I didn’t care. That shower sandblasted at least 3 years off of my body.
Note to self: Cover nipples
The only drawback was that a hooker’s vagina was cleaner than these stalls.
I had 5 minutes of bliss before someone kindly reminded me that it was their turn by getting violent with the door handle. I begrudgingly grabbed my towel and stuffed my face into it. I was hoping to breathe in the clean smell of my home to remind me that I’m fucking awesome at doing laundry, when I realized that the towel I had grabbed was the towel that my husband hung on a line near the fire pit.
I was drying myself off with camp smoke.
I smelled like that one time when your aunt fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand and set the couch on fire.
I whipped that shower door open to see a hairy bastard that was probably going to hang is nasty underwear on the clothing hook. Then I giggled because I do it too. I stomped my way to the bathroom and blasted through the door because I was feeling super dramatic. I was met with bitter faces of women trying to make camping sexy.
They were putting on makeup and blow drying their hair.
Look, when you’re camping, all parts of you that bore any resemblance to being human vanish. It’s the only time that us women are allowed to look ugly.
I unraveled my hair from my smoke turban and pulled out my toothbrush. I squeezed my way through the divas to the only 2 sinks in the place when I saw it.
All the hair.
Curly ones. Straight ones. Pubic ones…could have been.
And I wanted to throw up.
I brushed one tooth then got the hell out of there because Kimberly does not do lice.
By the time I got back to the camp, the first person to open their mouth and ask about my “shower” experience, was my husband. I came this close to shredding up the wallpaper in there, but thought that I should get a cookie instead.
1 out of 10 women who eat a cookie, prevents one heinous crime against men. Fact. Ask my ovaries that are about ready to lay an egg.
I ripped open the Rubbermaid and found the cookie box.
And you know what?
It was empty.
“Oh I ate it,” Shawn said.
I plopped myself on the soaking wet lawn chair by the dwindling smoke from the weak campfire and decided that I could never go on the show Survivor.
I almost started to cry when I thought about the bear who mauled that guy on the SAME trail we had hiked the day before.
The bear was a woman who wanted revenge because her husband ate last god damned cookie.
And the rain was matting her bear fur.
I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.
(Spoiler alert: It rained)