When I was fourteen years old, I tried to conquer camping. You know, real camping with latrines instead of toilets and tents instead of cabins. That first night there, trying to sleep on the cold floor in a tent that was pitched downhill, I cried, desperately longing for home. Needless to say, camping conquered me. I promised myself that I would never go camping again.
Since then, my feelings towards camping were the same as my feelings towards exercising, mustard, and Justin Beiber. It’s cool if that’s what you’re into, but I would rather not.
Fast forward seven years and add one Eagle Scout husband.
Tyson and I were sitting next to each other at sacrament meeting when our bishop announced our ward camp-out over the pulpit. Tyson looked at me, hopeful, and bright-eyed. I shook my head.
Fast forward a couple of weeks, past a week that went by slowly while I waited for some good news that never came. It was Friday night, and we didn’t want to miss out on all the fun. So we drove into the wilderness with zero provisions, except for a bottle of Diet Coke and some Advil.
Let me tell you about the only part of camping that I can get on board with:
We (Tyson) roasted (burned) some marshmallows and ate them while they were still all gooey and warm and delicious. I almost had a mental breakdown when I realized that I hadn’t brought my hand sanitizer. I was distracted from said mental breakdown by something called a banana boat.
Next time on The Adventures of Brenda & Tyson:
– how to make your very own banana boat!
– and the rest of our camping experience (spoiler alert: we slept in our own bed that night)