When I was a teenager, I used to consider myself a ‘guy’s girl’: a romping, chomping, beer-guzzling wise-cracker. An interest in violent cinema and a mouth like a loaded sailor came as standard.
Things like camping sounded fun. And declaring I enjoyed such a merry outdoors activity made me seem low-maintenance and fun.
Upon further reflection, I realised I’d only been camping three times, and every trip, I tried to conquer my crippling anxiety over clambering bugs, soggy weather and undesirable midnight visitors. But it didn’t work.
There’s no way around it. I’m high maintenance. I’m ashamed of my unwavering attachment to creature comforts – but I still crave getaways with hot showers and wireless internet access.
Don’t worry, this won’t be one of those ‘urbanite eschews city life for one whole day and finds herself’ stories because that would be a lie. Continue reading