Birds tweet and twitter at each other from the trees overhead. They flit and hop from branch to branch. They seem very busy, and yet not busy at all.
Everything out here is green. The grass, the trees, and the reflective surface of the pond I’m sitting next to – all green. It’s nature at its finest. The Great Outdoors.
I hate it.
It’s too loud. Every hour of the day there are crickets chirping, the leaves in the trees rustle with the wind, and the birds are singing at the top of their little lungs. I want to throw a rock at one of those flying jerks. Can’t I get some peace? Isn’t that what this damn camping trip is for?
And another thing.
Where’s the traffic? The sound of car horns and engines and sirens? The murmur of my neighbors’ TVs or the shouting from the streets? It’s much too quiet here. How can I possibly be expected to relax?
My boyfriend loves it.
“Don’t you love this fresh air?” he asks me. “Look at all that sky!” he says to me. “This is wonderful!” he exudes.
I’m convinced he’s lost it. Snapped. What does “fresh air” or the sky matter when my cell phone is dying? When my allergies are acting up? When there’s no running water? When I feel like we are miles away from any form of civilization?
I don’t know what he was thinking, suggesting a camping trip. Or what I was thinking, agreeing to come out here with him. Maybe we’re both cracked.
Now he’s talking about coming out here once a month. About maybe renting a house in the country. “Wouldn’t that be great?” he questions, “think how relaxing it will be!”
I think I’m going to pass out. Once a month. A house in the country. This camping trip, like our relationship, clearly needs to come to an end.