The Camping Chronicles, Book One: Waving the White Flag

Sunday Morning: June 26, 2011

I went to bed before The Husband. He stayed up with another coach to have man time around the fire. I was happy to retreat early and hopefully sleep. I slept so well that I would have thought I was in my bed at home. Maybe it was just the exhaustion catching up, or maybe it was the wine. Either way, I woke up rested and happy…until I realize the husband set the alarm late. I jumped from the bed, grabbed my change (because showers cost money at this campsite) and run for my first shower. I have 15 mins to get to the bathroom take a shower, get dressed, get back, eat and leave. This has to work. I get to the shower, get undressed and stand in-between two curtains in a very breezy shower. The door to the shower room is left open to the brisk 50 degrees outside. I put my fifty-cents in and turn the single handle to the left. The showers are fifty cents for three mins. The water starts and I put my foot in…and quickly jerk it out. Ice.Cold. I turn it further to the left and just as you feel it warming up…and that means from ice water cold to just really cold it shuts off. I start again…shuts off. And again…shuts off. I must have tried 10 times. It’s broken. So, I think, “I can take a quick cold one.”  Dumbest idea ever. I held in my scream and only let out a small squeal. I was more than desperate to be clean, but I couldn’t do it. Now, I’m standing between the breezy vinyl curtains, half of my body dripping with ice-cold water when the shower next to mine turns on. Hot marvelous steam rose above the wall. It was beautiful. Why didn’t I just switch showers when mine didn’t work right away!? Well, that would mean that I would have been prepared and brought more change. Which I didn’t. There are only two showers and for a moment I thought of asking the woman to my left in the steamy shower if she would mind sharing. At this point, I really didn’t care and would have happily jumped in, but something told me this could get me kicked out of the campsite or arrested. Whatever.  I reluctantly got dressed, which is hard to do when you are cold wet and shivering. At least I had clean clothes. There wasn’t time to go back and try again. I walk back to the tent frustrated and mumbling to find that my sons jersey, shorts, and socks I lovingly washed in a metal pot last night were not dry or even close to being dry. I find myself hungry and dirty sitting in the passenger seat of our Jeep with both my feet on the dash. One foot holding a soccer jersey and one foot holding shorts over the vents with the heat turned on high. In my hands, wet soccer socks. My arms were stretched over to the driver side of the car to hold each sock over a vent. My husband walked by the window and knew not to open the door or speak to me. If looks could kill, I’d be arrested for murder. A few minutes later everyone jumps in the jeep to go to the game. My Goalie isn’t even dressed yet. I’m still holding his clothes over the vents to dry them. I put on my hat to cover my dirty hair and we arrive at the fields. Our son quickly gets dressed. The husband and I sit in silence while the team warms up. He finally looks at me and squeezes my hand. With every ounce of control knowing that this isn’t his fault, but it was soooo his idea, I tell him I still love him, I just don’t like him right now. After watching the games, we head back to camp and decide that we will not being staying an extra night. We pack up and head home only to miss the ferry and sit waiting….so close, but so far away from a hot shower. Finally, we get home and we decided that camping is fun when you are just camping. Camping for tournaments is not fun. Not. Fun. At. All.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s