DAY TWENTY-ONE (a few days ago): Summer Camp Converts

Me Being a Badass on a Horse.

In the celebrated Midwestern tradition, the pinnacle of virtually every summer from the time I was 6 years old was the two weeks that I spent swimming, horseback riding, and camping at summer camp.

Having been raised amongst these rather peculiar “camp folk” for my entire childhood, by the time I had transcended the camper experience and pushed forth out of my cocoon to find that I had emerged with the illustrious “Senior Counselor” status and title, I was well-versed in the behavioral patterns of the first-time camper.

Often only five or six years old, there is nearly always a moment in which the first-time camper (FTC) realizes that his/her parents have maliciously conspired against their own child… that the overwhelming excitement and enthusiasm displayed by the adults upon arrival were not only contrived, but specifically designed to deceive their own offspring, and that now, probably for the very first time in their young lives, the people who they had come to believe were their consummate protectors were now slyly inching backward toward the minivan with every intention of willingly leaving their screaming, shaking, drooling child to be abducted by these frighteningly upbeat and perpetually singing green-shirted strangers… “Come play with us, Danny.”

As the young are typically more susceptible to mental manipulation and trickery, the transition from belligerent, hysterical child to happy, bouncy, boisterous, beaming neophyte is usually not only quick, but relatively seamless and permanent.

In fact, the unsuspecting adolescent is often defenseless against this proselytization, and within a matter of hours, the healthy skepticism displayed by the child just prior to their first lunch will have surrendered completely, incapable of sustaining itself amidst the incessant singing in rounds and seemingly endless supply of chicken nuggets and milkshakes.

By the time the parents show up to collect their youngster, the irrepressible frenzy that their departure had created just two weeks ago is dwarfed by the delirious rage and tempestuous gnashing of teeth displayed when trying to remove the child from the camp premises.

Though slightly less pronounced, my exodus from the Bikram studio was similar in nature.

It took several days to surrender to the demands of such an extreme environment, but by the time I had completed my third consecutive day of practice, my body had become a worthy vessel to navigate the treacherous terrain of a Bikram class.

I found myself inexplicably looking forward to practice, ready to put both my mind and my body to the test once again… to see if I could not only survive another 90-minute session, but thrive.

And thrive I did.

On my sixth day in the sweat lodge, I found my limbs bending and conforming to my every whim. Had I asked them to, I’m quite certain that my legs would have obliged to swing up and around the back of my head, thrilled by the opportunity to help me assume the shape of my bygone hero, Gumby.

And on the 7th day, I wept… On the inside, anyway…  And not so much weep as sigh.  But it was, without a doubt, a sigh of disappointment and grief.

I wasn’t ready to leave.  Had my parents been there to pick me up, I surely would’ve resisted. Well, first I would’ve asked them why they had left St. Louis and shown up in Seattle unannounced… then I would’ve asked them to take me out for dinner.

But then, as we began to roll out of the Bikram studio parking lot, I just might have unleashed a Damien-like wrath unlike any other my folks had ever seen from me before….

Then again, that would likely decrease the probability of getting a good meal out of them, so probably not.