Never say never

“I don’t camp.” That, my friends, is what you call famous last words. Because next week, my family and I are joining other families from church for Family Camp. Where I, lover of hotels, linens untouched by sandy feet, and warm showers, will become a (wait for it) camper.

Seriously. I cannot believe it, either.

File this under no good deed goes unpunished. Last year, I agreed to go to Family Camp for a daytime visit. I hoped this would put to rest any pleas from some in the family to go camping. I was very, very wrong. Sean, Rebecca and Michael loved it. (Amy wasn’t with us, otherwise I’d have had at least one other vote on my side.)

When I realized resistance was futile, I made one demand request: if we’re doing this, we’re doing this in an RV. I am not sleeping in a tent. I did that in Kenya for a summer and that was enough, thank you very much. I was 17 and limber enough to get dressed in the crouched position; I am a lot older now and prefer to dress standing upright.

So this week, I’m preparing to go camping. A sweet friend forwarded me a list of items to remember – she should have just said, “Empty your house into the trunk of your car and take everything with you,” because that’s what it sounds like I need to do.

I am a little intimidated about the food I need to bring. Sean is convinced he’ll be cooking every meal over the fire. “Michael and I have done this before, you know,” he keeps saying. Well, yes, they did camp for one weekend eight years ago, and the Scoutmasters bought and packaged all the food for the group. They both seem to forget that part.

I keep reminding myself that this will lead to great blog material.

And that it’s only for a weekend.

And that there's WiFi at the camp store.