Today, I was sitting in a meeting and a colleague walked in and turned air to perfume. She wore whatever it is my camp counselor wore 13 years ago. And suddenly, I couldn’t focus on global transformation or centers of excellence, but could only think about tubing down a river that wasn’t deep enough and scraping my ass on rocks. I thought about eating three meals a day corralled through the kitchen, and playing catch with eggs. And to think I paid $200 for that.
I loved camp. I would save every dollar I earned babysitting so I could spend a week
away from my family with strangers. I would play gutterball for hours and piss off the guys because I was better than them. Then, if they wanted more, I’d school them in Foosball, too. I would eat seconds at every meal and buy candy every afternoon. Camp was a smorgasbord I never wanted to end. I dreaded that Saturday morning when my mom would come pick me up in that embarrassing maroon boat of ours. I would trade addresses with my cabin-mates and later write them letters on my personalized stationary I bought from the Current catalog.
I remember being excited for college. I told my aunt I would love college because it would be like camp that lasted all school year long. She said it kind of was, but it entailed something called studying, as well. I didn’t bother too much with the studying part, so college was great. Not just a week, but entire semesters at a time away from my family and thinking I was living on my own. Ah, the innocence of youth.
I do enjoy working, it suits me. I need to occupy my time with something other than my own thoughts. But sometimes I think of working somewhere that would feel like playing. Working at a camp or a college in a Neverland of sorts. Where although I grew old, without the wrinkles, no one could tell. Where I wouldn’t have to be tactful or diplomatic, but could be myself and never worry about losing my job over it. Childish dreams never die with me, they just recycle. I’m perpetually battling adulthood.