Here we are once again, to that time of year where I'm gearing myself up mentally and physically for the trek up into Canada with my husband's family--to rough it (that link back there is not a link to Canada's tourist website, by the way...it's a link to last's year's saga).
For some of you, the definition of "roughing it" is camping out in the wilderness, in a tent, with no toilet, no shower, no running water PERIOD. Honestly, for me, roughing it is staying at a Motel 6 or, worse, a Holiday Inn.
I often feel bad when I look at my husband - a man who loves the outdoors as much as he loves to breathe, eat, and play soccer. I feel sorry for him because he's married to ME. I admit that I love the outdoors too - as long as the temperature is between 70 and 80 degrees Fahrenheit, there are no flies, no ants, no mosquitoes and NO spiders. Occasionally, everything works in my favor and it's not too hot nor too cold out there, and there's enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes at bay. I don a baseball cap to keep those bastard flies from buzzing around my head and use my homemade anti-bug soap to keep my skin smelling like lemon and lavender to keep any brave mosquitoes and other insects off of me.
I've tried over the years to pretend I like camping and have even thought that maybe if I just did it and relaxed about everything, including the sounds of things sniffing around the tent as I try to sleep at night and the mosquitoes that still buzz in my ear, even though they don't dare land, I might grow to enjoy it But for GOD'S SAKE!! I'm 50 years old, and it's apparently just not going to happen. A few years ago, I stopped pretending.
Thing is, this annual vacation isn't camping, per se. We rent a bunch of cottages that are located on a little peninsula on a gorgeous lake in the Province of Ontario, Canada. Not far from Kingston, to be more precise.
But the scenario is this: many of the window and door screens have holes in them (mosquitoes), the door to our cottage has a gap between it and the floor (more mosquitoes and a couple of chipmunks) and opening the silverware drawer causes a flurry of activity (big black ants). The mattress literally stinks like major BO - and fishermen. For any fishermen out there reading this (although I have yet to meet a fisherman who has any interest in me or what I write), this is not meant to insult you, but I know you understand when I say, YOU STINK.
Needless to say, I wash everything again before I eat off of it, lay sheet upon sheet over the bed, and spritz myself with bug spray before getting into that bed (the bug repellent soap works, but because I only take a shower every other day while there [another story altogether], the fragrance fades, replaced by the lovely scent of sweat which, apparently, mosquitoes love). I don't swim in the lake because, well, it's murky and there are things in it that I can't see and there are long green plants that sometimes grab my feet. And, yes, even my tough-as-nails sister-in-law bathes in bug spray and there's a photo to prove it.
Let's face it, I have huge problems. My brother-in-law dubbed me the "Female Woody Allen" many years ago. Again, I feel for my husband. Quite honestly, I probably should have paired up with someone who loves to travel and stay in posh hotels, who owns a yacht where I can sunbathe all day on its deck, a yard with a built-in swimming pool and a cabana boy, and, of course, a gourmet kitchen (because I do love to cook). I'm sure my husband's wish is, at least occasionally, for everything I'm not. But we never go there because we do love each other and there truly are incredible things about the other that each of us swears we can't live without. That is, of course, until I say I'm never going to that godforsaken place again and he thinks it's ok to make me wait 17 months to get a new stove and then...yes, then, we go to our imaginary worlds and imagine who the other might be. Or imagine ourselves filing those papers.
I sat on the couch this morning before Liam rose, holding my cup of coffee in my hand and staring at the wall. Which is what I do when I'm worrying about something. Walls are so non-intrusive. Then I texted my sister-in-law and told her I was feeling anxious about vacation. She reassured me. Because she knows me. She knows I'll be ok. She knows I'm a flake. She knows I'll pack that beautiful lacy skirt and high heels just in case we get to go somewhere glamorous. Just like I do every year and, just like every year, we never do. But I'll pack it anyway because I like to be prepared for unexpected things. Like the unexpected knight riding in on that white horse who lifts the lid of his helmet, revealing an incredibly gorgeous, understanding, loving face, and says, "Baby, hop on, let me take you away from all of this and I promise you, you'll never cry again, you'll live in comfort for the rest of your life, people will always be pleasant, there are closets upon closets of high heels and room after room of jewelry armoires filled with all kinds of bling, the temperature is always 76 degrees, there are no bugs, there's a gourmet kitchen, and, guess what, we have a pool! With a cabana boy who brings you pina coladas at the snap of your fingers! And your husband can live with us for as long as you want. I'll even go camping with him."
The reality of it all is that life is good. it is what it is and it's here to enjoy. Perspiration, bug bites, foul odors and yucky showers included. I always survive and, oh, by the way, they do have a swimming pool on the premises. It's not built in, but it's chlorinated. I'll give up my perfume for chlorine any day if it means I don't have to set foot into the lake.
And, to my family, you know that I always, at the end of our week together say, "Let's do it again next year!" You KNOW that. Because I'll spend time with family any day, anywhere, as long as we are together, happy and healthy. And someone's got my back.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma
Photographs compliments of Robin
