So sue me. I hate the outdoors. I don't like sweating. I don't like dirt. I don't like fucking bugs. I am terrified of frogs -- which are all over outdoors.
I am in Woodstock, NY where, although the actual concert was held an hour south in Bethel, hippies are banking loads of money through marketing the three days of peace and music. And for some reason it surprised me. I just didn't think 1, that people cared that much anymore and 2, that hippies would maintain their lifestyle in the sense of not bathing, but switch over to capitalism based on a concert that was held an hour away from here thirty years ago.
Although I have always fantasized about being 18 in 1968 and being a hippie at the festival, I have learned that I didn't know what I was talking about. Because if the true hippies smelled anything like the hippies I have encountered here in Woodstock (patchouli and feet), there is no way I could have ever been a hippie. Even on massive amounts of hallucinogens.
Plus, hippies love nature. They like to get right up in it. Right up to their un-deodorantized armpits. I love nature from afar.
We're here in Woodstock to celebrate Erica's mom's 60th birthday with the family. We're all staying in this huge cabin and have been eating and playing games and telling stories and having a great time. Outside every single window in this place is woods. It's beautiful. We have frequent deer sightings. I love that. We've been to town for dinner and to shop in the village green. Fun and cute and great.
And then came the hike.
Oh, we're all going on a hike and it's gonna be nice. Grandma is coming.
Cool. I can totally handle a grandma-paced hike. Not too fast, not too steep, not too creepy crawly. Awesome.
Then we get there. And we start going up. Grandma ends up not being with us so we keep going up. Up. At a 45 degree angle. In heat. And I'm starting to sweat. And then the bugs start biting. And I'm panting. Did I mention I get face sweat. Lots of face sweat. This is foul and incredibly unpleasant (not to mention unattractive, which I am not into). But I'm trudging along. I am hating every step, but I'm in there. Erica tries to cheer me up. "At least it's pretty."
We are on a hill surrounded by pine trees and moss and ivy. It was like being at home in the woods. I played in the woods as a kid. When I could tolerate humidity. And dirt. To me, I see woods and I see places for snakes. And frogs. (Terrified of them, people. Irrationally and irreparably terrified.) Yes, there are pretty elements, but as a whole, unpretty. Then she gives me an out.
Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want.
Bingo. "Oh thank god. Yes let's go."
Hey everyone. Susan doesn't want to hike so we're going to go back.
Susan doesn't want to hike? What an asshole. To add to this, after we finally tear away from the barrage of, "Oh come on's," accompanied by a list of things meant to entice me to want to continue the torture. "Look how pretty! It'll be fun! Look ... a FROG!"
"That does it! Fuck this. I am getting off this hill."
I'm half stumbling, half stomping defiantly back toward the car. Furious. It's hot. It's humid. I have bug bites and sweat pouring off my face. I'm surrounded by a plague of amphibians and Erica completely threw me under her family's guilt bus. Plus, I'm partially blinded because I'm sobbing hysterically. Then Erica, referring to her previous statement,
Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want, says, "Well, what I meant to say was that hiking wasn't my first choice but I was doing it because I never get time to spend with my family."
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