I have a love hate relationship with “glamping”, or glamour camping. It’s a trend we’re hearing a lot about right now. Think camping, but in a supplied and air-conditioned tent that is larger than your two car garage and houses a television bigger than the one in your family room.
See, I love the outdoors. I love not having electricity. I love outhouses. Ok, no one loves outhouses, but you can see the direction I am moving towards. When I am in the woods, I do not need Wi-Fi. I need bug repellant. I don’t need an oven, just some wood for the fire pit.
My wife, on the other hand, would rather use a subway station restroom than primitive camp in the forest. It’s not all her fault. She grew up camping in campgrounds, the gateway drug to glamping. Last time I “camped” with her, we found ourselves hot-tubing with the neighboring site, after a dip in the indoor heated pool. Then we ordered a pizza at the snack bar and let the kids watch a movie on the iPad. She loved it. Admittedly, I did too. But it sure wasn’t camping.
See, that’s where the love part comes in. I love her, and the kids. If this means we spend time together, I’ll take it. We didn’t have to set up a tent, or split fire wood. We pulled the grocery getting SUV we own right up to the front door of a finished yurt and dropped off our bags. The kids changed to their bathing suits and off to the splash pad they went. We set the air conditioner to lower sleeping temperatures, roasted some marshmallows on the deck, and looked for shooting stars blocked by the ambient light of the snack shack. It was nice.
I guess once a year I can hand in my man card, leave the compass and map in the shed and go “glamping”. As long as I can bring my kayak.