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.