On Tuesday, after nearly fourteen hours of driving, our trusty Volvo station wagon (affectionately known as either the "Man Wagon" or "Invisi-Car," depending on who's driving) pulled into our temporary living arrangements in Raleigh, North Carolina. To say those arrangements are spartan would win you the Daily Double, should my life ever be turned into a Jeopardy category. So yesterday we went in search of camp chairs, to add to the classy decor of air mattresses, a card table, and folding chairs.
I write now from my Dick's Sporting Goods chair, complete with cup holder and marginal lumbar support. My coffee is in a used McCafe cup, we're eating on paper plates, and I'm pretty sure my mattress is deflating. It is, however, a great deal of fun. (This is also, I should note, the closest to camping I care to get.) Our apartment complex has a fitness center, so I've returned to the treadmill, and no Wi-fi, so I've actually done some writing.
I think my parents (at least my mother) feel a little guilty, considering that this Sunday is my birthday, and we don't even have a microwave. And this transitional housing deal, with the rock-hard Flinstone furniture, is something we've always sought to endure, not enjoy. But I get to spend time with family, write to my heart's content, and my mom feels too sorry for me to get angry that I watched 5 episodes of Firefly in a row. That's my kind of summer.
And, despite its appearance, a camp chair feels very much like a throne, and that makes me happy.
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