Camping Like A Real Woman

I’m going camping this weekend.  Me and my friends, all four of them, we always say we’re going to but we never do.  This year is different.  This year it’s happening.

I love camping.  Or at least I love the fuzzy memories I have of camping.  This camping trip will be better than any other for one reason and one reason alone.  Fuck tons of booze.  Most of my camping trips were with my family while under the legal drinking age. This will actually be my first camping trip without someone’s parent around to dampen the mood. This is the first one where I can really get back to nature by shitting in and vomiting all over it like my ancestors before me.

My people are irish.
My people are Irish.

People have been asking me if we’ll be staying in a cabin, or camper to which I reply, “Fuck no.  We’re not glamping.  I’m sleeping on the damn ground”, because I’m a real (wo)man.  The general reaction to telling someone you’re going to spend 3 days sleeping on compressed dirt and rocks is usually an unpleasant wrinkle of the brow.  “Isn’t that uncomfortable”, they’ll ask.  No, no it is not.  Not if I’m camping right cause than I’ll be too drunk the whole time to care or feel the twigs poking into my back.

Don't worry, I'm bringing a sleeping bag. I'm not a complete idiot.
Don’t worry, I’m bringing a sleeping bag. I’m not a complete idiot.

I just hope that I don’t get my period.  I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve decided I never want to bring my aunt flow camping. I can’t imagine few things worse than being bloated, cramping, hormonal, and sleeping on the ground.  Plus, I’m pretty sure that the four of us girls who are going, have synced our menstrual cycles, so that would just be the most miserable weekend ever conceived in the woods. Well, without the inclusion of forest fires, masked psychos, or skunks anyway.  Best case scenario you have three PMSing women just sitting around a rapidly dying fire that’s only partially shielded from the rain (because you know it will be raining), just passing around a bottle of rum and crying .That is how suicide pacts are formed.  Or maybe pregnancy pacts? Whatever, either way your life is over.

I'm not saying death is better than motherhood, I'm just saying there's more sleep involved.
I’m not saying death is better than motherhood, I’m just saying there’s more sleep involved.

Only one person will have had the foresight to bring Midol and we’d have to ration it to make it through the weekend… Only that won’t happen because I’ll be the one who remembers the Midol and If I know myself at all I will manipulate the fuck out of that position.  I will take monopoly of the campsite trade industry.  I’ll start as a simple muscle relaxer merchant and slowly make my way to being the most powerful woman in Qarth. I’m sorry? Is that reference too out dated?  It was from way back in season two.  Go ahead readers with social lives, google it. I’ll wait…

I would make them dry all the firewood with their breath and fight for stale hot dog buns because that’s the kind of person I am. By day two my subjects would be fed up with my shit and start a rebellion.  I’m not likable enough to make people dispose of my used tampons for me without dealing with the repercussions.  I know this.  I lack the charisma necessary.  It would end in catastrophe.  Five people would enter that campsite… only one would leave.  My poor, lone, guy friend. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Alas, he was too good for this world.
Alas, he was too good for this world.

What I’m most worried about when it comes to camping on my period is what the fuck do you do with the tampon after you’ve used it? Bury it I guess?  I don’t know, but I’m not confident a bear wouldn’t smell that.  I have no idea what I’d do if a bear showed up at my campsite looking for a hook up.  To be fair the bear would probably take the hint that I wasn’t interested a whole lot faster than any man I’ve had to dodge.  I think I would have a shot at reasoning with the bear.  I feel like when I tell the bear, “Sorry bro, I’m just not interested”, he would get that.  He wouldn’t keep pressing for my phone number anyway.  At the very least he would be perceptive enough to pick up on my body language.


I wouldn’t have to tell him I already have a bear-friend.  He would just respect my right to say “no Mr. Bear, you can not have what’s in this honey pot”, and he’d scurry back into the woods without calling me a dyke.  Still, it‘s comforting though to know that there are males out there that aren’t scared off by a little vagina blood even if they are of a different species.

One thought on “Camping Like A Real Woman

  1. kbeck13 July 10, 2014 / 6:19 pm

    Haha! I feel like that escalated quickly…great post!


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