My twelve-year old son just returned from summer camp and I
am really jealous of his time away.
He went to a camp that had a week-long
specialty in paintball. Yes, I said paintball. That cherished American summer
feel good sport that gives you bruising welts all over your body and can
potentially send you to the infirmary with slight brain damage after any given
match. My son headed to the infirmary with a bloody skin tear on his neck, and
yes, we received the call from the camp nurse informing us of my son’s injury. Every parent loves a call from camp. We were told
the only sadness from my son was that he missed out on shooting some folks as
he was a sniper on a bluff before he was hit by friendly fire. Oh those good ‘ol
camp days. Yes, that is the one whose only birthday wish was a brand new
machete, preferably one illegal in most countries and could slice the wings off
a gnat. President or prison on that one
I always say, he’s the flyer.
These days you can head to almost any type of camp. You can
attend for paintball, horsemanship, extreme sports, (oh I can only hope for
that one next year, maybe we can receive a call of a broken arm or two),
crafts, music, dance, any type of sport, and of course church camp. I love the
church camp, and was able to attend one last year. Being saved by Jesus, followed by an all you
can eat walking taco bar and s’mores is the absolute summer ticket, I highly
recommend.
I really want to go to camp with simply myself; one designed
especially for my own particular place in life. Perhaps it could be a camp for adults
experiencing a variety of mid-life crisis. Men aged forty to fifty could check
in their medication and head to experience a host of possibilities at their
camp. A corvette camp where men with overbearing wives could have a week away
to shop for the car they will never be allowed to own. Viagra commercials would
not be allowed on the premises. Specialty camps would include, shootin’ stuff,
blowin’ up stuff, and my favorite, stuffin’ stuff, a week long taxidermy
adventure. Evening meals could be
prostate-health inducing pomegranate shakes and Porterhouse steaks served by twenty-something
girls that work part-time at the Hooters.
Women my age (won’t own the age, but I am in the same range
as the men) could spend a week away messing up houses that someone else will
clean and learning makeup techniques that wipe away the wrinkles of forty plus
years of long forgotten waistlines and toilet scrubbing. Specialty camps for
women could be, movies that my husband and kids won’t watch, Indy car driving
to show off our mad school parking lot skills, and my personal choice, crafting
with minor anti-depressants. Our meals would be something that would be easy on
the digestive track (got the IBS ya know) and looks pretty, served by pool boys
named Pablo. There would be many of them and all would be named Pablo.
Alas, I think I will have to be content with my camp at home
this summer. It is fun here, I still
have the toilets and my poor husband does not yet have his sports car, but we
will have good times, BBQs and a big backyard sans gnats.
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