A couple of weeks ago, Kit and I took a big step in our relationship. Although, I should say it was more than just a step. It was a move to expand our horizons. To challenge ourselves. To grow as individuals and as a couple. We went camping.
There are lesbians who love to camp. You know who they are. They have memberships to mountain equipment outlets. Purple bandanas keep mullets out of their faces. These women use pink highlighters on topographical maps. They bring their lunch to work in a full-on hiking backpack, which begs the question: how heavy can their chicken salad sandwiches be?
Queers are of a different sort. Of course, some like camping and some don’t, and car-camping is far more popular amongst queers. A morning in the woods is not morning without an espresso made in the back of a Subaru hatchback. Queers write nature poetry in a Moleskine notebook. And they stay within a three-bar minimum of cellphone range. Honestly, camping is not camping without being able to Instagram your skillet-fried dinner.
But for us, queer housewives, we know that camping can involve less ladylike activities such as sports socks. It’s alienating. It’s foreign. Kit and I were scared, but we faced our fears.
And, like the conclusion of a slightly grubby fairy tale, it turns out that camping wasn’t all that bad. That night, the new moon was bright in the sky. Our mattress was perfectly comfortable. We were snuggled warmly under the blankets. There were extra pillows. The “facilities” were very clean. The hardest thing about camping was having a continental breakfast, but all in all I think we would stay at that Holiday Inn again.