Camping

I hate camping. I enjoy taking in the beauties of nature as much as the next person, but I wish to do so on my own terms. At the end of a day spent in the wilderness, I want to be able to rid myself of the filth of nature in a shower  in which I do not have to choose between wearing shoes or contracting a possibly terminal case of foot fungus. I don't want to sleep in a sleeping bag. Air-filled mattresses do little to make a night's sleep much more comfortable than sleeping on the cold and rocky floor of the Earth.

I've been camping before. Once. I was three years old at the time, and I was sufficiently miserable that I made everyone around me at least as miserable as I was in order to ensure that I would never be forced to repeat the camping experience. It worked. My parents have never again even hinted at the possibility of asking me to sleep anywhere that was rated fewer than three stars, and I'm not talking about the ones in the sky. Those don't count.

I went to summer camp when I was younger, but it was a tennis camp with two beds to a room, TV,  and air conditioning. That's as close to roughing it as I care to do.

Don't misunderstand me. I like looking  the stars. I did so just a few minutes ago. Then I came back inside and crawled into the Westin bed that is mine to sleep in anytime I'm visiting my PseudoRelatives' home. Nature is beautiful, but so are electricity, in-house running water, and flush toilets. One can have them all on the same day.