Here's a little tidbit about me. I hate camping. Hate. It.
When I was eleven I was in Girl Scouts. The cookies were the main attraction. And even they were not enough to keep me there once I had been to camp. I was done after one trip and I never went back. Except once to pick up my sister. And I was stung by a wasp on my rear end within five minutes of setting foot on the property.
I knew then that camping and I were not meant to be. The only way I could possibly be more out of place when I am there is if I threw on a tiara and a feather boa.
Moving to Utah, land of pioneers and self-sufficiency, did nothing to change my mind. Instead, it only made it worse because now camping was combined with another of my major fears...heights. The only thing worse than camping is having to drive up the side of a mountain to do it.
When El Guapo was made first counselor the first thing that he was put in charge of was the activities committee. He came home and informed me that we were going to the ward campout. I informed him that I wasn't sure, but I didn't think our prenup had covered that possibility.
It didn't matter, we went anyway.
He came home, loaded the van and off we went, father-in-law in tow. When we arrived, the only place left to set up a tent was the parking lot. While Guapo did that, the kids and I ate buns (the meat was already gone by the time we arrived) and marshmallows. The ward sang a song, said a prayer, and it was bedtime. (We got there really late apparently.) We trooped back to our new tent, unzipped the "door" and stepped inside. There my sweetheart had carefully laid...a quilt.
No bedrolls. No pillows. No sleeping bags.
Just a quilt.
Papi took one look at the scene and muttered something in Spanish about sleeping in the car. Wise man.
The rest of us looked at our fearless leader. I had nothing left. The drive up had taken it out of me completely. We arranged the kids between us for warmth, pulled the quilt up to our chins and...laid there. The kids slept, they can sleep through anything, but no such luck for Guapo and me. About two in the morning I asked Guapo if he was awake. He was. I asked if he had had enough yet. He had. We disappeared into the night. The ward had no idea what had happened.
When Guapo was called as bishop in the Spanish ward my favorite thing about the ward, initially anyway, was that they didn't camp. I thought I was off the hook.
And then they made me Young Women's president.
I had to go to camp. Again. And I did. And there were parts that I loved...the parts that had nothing to do with camping.
But the part where I have to be dirty. Unh unh. The part where I can't wash my hair. Nope. Or the part where I have to go up the mountain. Or the part where I smell like smoke for days on end. The endless sun. Or rain. Or cold. Or hot. No, I still don't like it.
This year I was informed by the YCLs that we weren't supposed to wear make up either. (Stop laughing.) After five days in the wilderness the only thing that separates me from the potguts and other wildlife is my eyeliner and I am not going down happily.
Any prayers would be appreciated.