I don't camp. I don't dream about spending time in the "great outdoors" (with all the bugs). I don't dream about cooking over an open fire (with all the bugs). I don't relish sleeping on one-inch thick foam in the same room with my stove, my food supply, and several other snoring, sweaty people (and all the bugs).
To be honest, I did camp ONCE. It was the first and last time. We camped for TEN. DAYS. TEN. DAYS. It was June. In Michigan. The water was...........oh......about TWELVE degrees. Sawyer was nine months old, still nursing and napping multiple times a day. That means that Payton was 2, Sydney was 4, and Brooke was 7. The bathroom was a long walk away..........the 2,968 times a day I walked a child there. I no longer refer to that week as "camping". It was "nightmaring".
For some people that is a "vacation". Obviously, the definition of "vacation" is very subjective.
However, you know what they say about desperate times.
They call for "desperate measures".
And right about now, I'm desperate.
For some peace and solitude.
I'm thinking I could use oh............about a week...........alone.
With a stack of books and lots of iced tea.
And NO bugs.
And maybe one or two restaurants nearby.
Because I still don't sleep with my food.
No thank you.
On second thought, maybe I'll just go here.