The Great Canvas Coffin
Why “Let’s Go Cammmmmpinnnnng” is a Threat
When a slender, athletic person hears the word “camping,” they get a misty look in their eyes. They start vibrating at a frequency only detectable by hiking boots and high-end granola. To them, camping is a spiritual return to the earth, a chance to “unplug” and “recharge” while sleeping on a yoga mat that provides all the structural support of a single flour tortilla. They’re going to HIKE, and FISH, and ROCK CLIMB, and SLEEP ROUGH.
When those same words reach the ears of a goddess of substance, the reaction isn’t a vibration; it’s a full-body trauma shutdown. We don’t hear “nature.” We hear “logistics.” We hear “gravity.” We hear the sound of a plastic chair screaming for mercy in the middle of a forest where no one can hear you scream except for the bears who check their watch to time how long it takes for you to die after you hit the ground because you will feed their entire family for a year while your campmates are just the toothpicks that will dislodge your vital organs from their teeth after the feast.
The Tactical Scouting Mission
The true horror of camping begins the moment you arrive at the picturesque site. While the gazelles are busy tossing a frisbee, we are performing a high-stakes structural integrity survey of the terrain.
You aren’t looking at the sunset; you are looking for the Load-Bearing Log. Every outdoor gathering involves the “Lawn Chair Russian Roulette.” You know the one—the collapsible bag chair with the thin aluminum legs that look like they were manufactured by a company that specializes in coat hangers.
Sitting in one of those as a fat person is an act of extreme faith. You don’t just sit; you descend with the slow, agonizing precision of a lunar lander. You spend the entire conversation monitoring the tension of the polyester fabric, waiting for the inevitable “pop” of a rivet that signals your sudden, undignified transition from “Goddess at a Fire” to “Human Taco trapped in a Canvas Coffin.”
The Physics of the Sleeping Bag
Then there is the sleeping arrangement. To an athletic person, a sleeping bag is a cozy cocoon. To us, it is a restrictive, nylon straitjacket designed by someone who has never seen a hip in their entire life. The pain of old bones sleeping on the ground is beyond belief.
There is a specific, quiet desperation in trying to zip up a mummy bag when you have more “mummy” than “bag.” You spend twenty minutes performing a series of horizontal yoga poses just to get the zipper past the mid-thigh mark. It harkens back to sweeter days of lying on the bed and “sucking in” to get that single digit pair of jeans to zip up.
Once you are finally encased, you realize the devastating truth: you are now in a sensory-deprivation tank with no exit strategy. If you need to pee at 3:00 AM, you aren’t just getting up; you are embarking on a multi-stage extraction mission that involves rolling like a beached seal until you gain enough momentum to hit a vertical plane.
You’re basically fuct.
The “Awe” vs. The “Ugh”
The thin crowd loves to talk about the “awe” of the great outdoors. They love the challenge of the vertical incline. They don’t understand that for a person of size, the challenge started at the car door.
Every step on uneven dirt is a negotiation with your knees and ankles. Every charming narrow trail is a potential “Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit’s house” situation waiting to happen. While they are busy connecting with the spirits of the trees, we are busy connecting with the reality that we are the only creature in the woods that didn’t come equipped with four-wheel drive and a built-in fur coat.
The worst part is not that our slender campmates didn’t likely consider how hard this would be for us. The worst part is that several of them think we deserve this torture as a punishment for being fat and hope that the experience will motivate us to “just lose the weight” so we can have a fantastic time (like them!) next year.
The Verdict
The next time a slender friend suggests a weekend in the wilderness, remember: you are a goddess. Goddesses belong in temples—preferably temples with central air, reinforced mahogany seating, and a bathroom that doesn’t require a flashlight and a prayer.
If they want to sleep on the ground and eat dehydrated peas, let them. We’ll be right here, maintaining our sovereignty on a couch that was actually built to hold a queen.
Aftercare Note: After the emotional detox of even thinking about a camping trip, please treat yourself to a long soak in a tub with Epsom salts. Drink plenty of water to flush out the phantom stress of that collapsible chair. Your energies are moving healthily now—safely away from the woods… and the bears.