I didn't grow up in a particularly "adventurous" household. I mean, we travelled, yes, but let's put it this way: I stuck to rollerblading on the basement carpet and my parents thought that that was juuuuust dandy. That's not to say that I haven't done adventurous things since. In fact, I like to think I've done a lot of exciting, very non-glamourous things. And I'm glad I did them! I mean, who doesn't want to try new things? The question is, however, do I want to do all of them again? Bitch, please. The true merit lies in the willingness to try barbecued chicken testicles, not the eating of them every night. That's just fucking weird.
So when my boyfriend decides we should go camping, and I make a face that looks like a mix between smelling sewage and eating an orange rind, I'm not being a princess, I'm simply saying, I've camped and it's been fun, but I've since started using a credit card and washing on a regular basis. I mean, I don't ask for a lot in life. I don't need a five-star hotel with chocolate-covered mints on my pillow (mmm, chocolate-covered mints on my pillow). I just don't love taking a crap while my ass dangles over a log and moons an entire family of raccoons. That's animal abuse, frankly.
And sleeping on a slab of wood? Do I look like a golden retriever? There are just so many variables to camping that I don't associate with a good vacation. For example:
1. Bears. I don't want to worry about a giant animal coming to eat me in the middle of the night.
2. Powdered food. If it looks like anthrax, let's face it, it probably tastes like it too.
3. Waking up for the sunrise is not romantic; it's something you see by accident when you wake up to pee.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm still all for nature-filled trips. The more slightly intoxicated hiking and swimming the better. I just prefer to embark on them from a bed and breakfast with a good Tripadvisor rating. Is that so much to ask?