Sad story of my life: I never went to camp as a child. It felt like all my friends did – they would leave for four to six weeks during the summer and come back with ridiculous stories about cabins and counselors and all the fun they had. And I had been at home watching Bug Juice and Totally Circus (which also made me want to join the circus) on the Disney Channel.

Right before I started my freshman year of college, an older friend said something very interesting to me. He said: “Living in dorms is basically like an extended version of summer camp. But with more drinking and less laundry.” I explained to him that this metaphor was lost to me since I’d never actually been to summer camp. After he briefly mourned the fact that I had missed out on an epic childhood experience, he said, “Well, summer camp is basically being dirty all the time and vaguely annoyed by everyone around you, but you’re too busy to notice because you’re simultaneously having fun and trying to keep your head above water.”

Too true, sir. Read More »

One summer when I was away at camp I got into a fight with all ten girls in my bunk. For three days, no one would talk to me. Eventually my counselor called me into her cabin and sat me down for a talk. I tried to blame everyone else (“But she cut me in line for water skiing! And she kicked sand onto my towel!”), but Stacy just wasn’t having it.

“If the entire bunk is mad at you, could it be something that you’re doing?” She asked.

I started to cry. Not because she was right – those girls were being cruel to me, not the other way around – but because now even my counselor was being mean. My 11-year-old mind couldn’t wrap itself around her reasoning. I didn’t do anything wrong and she’s taking their side? Why not call the other girls over and tell them there was something wrong with them? I want my mom.

But now, a little older and a whole lot wiser, I wonder if Stacy’s argument holds true.

I’ve been single for three years now. Three long years. I’ve had my fair share of post-bar trysts, but nothing that hasn’t ended with a few awkward stares as I strolled back to my place in the outfit I wore the night before. I’ve also had a few dates here and there but, again, none of it ever panned out. I’d like to think it was all my choice – that there was something wrong with each and every one of the guys I’ve gotten naked/drinks with – but now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe the problem isn’t with all of them and is actually with me. Read More »

The first week of college is summer camp. The second is back to reality. When I arrived on campus a little over a week ago, I never imagined going from name-games to essays in a blink.

My college has a week of orientation, so it never really felt like school until I walked into Geology on Tuesday morning. Before that, I had been watching movies with other freshmen, exploring—well, really getting lost in—the campus, and trying every imaginable ice cream combination at the dining halls.

From the moment I walked into my class, I realized I can’t just watch movies and eat ice cream for the next four years. Buying textbooks before the class was its own problem—really, if a book is used, shouldn’t it be dirt cheap, not just a fraction less expensive than the new version?—but being in a room filled with strangers, most not naïve first years like me, was unnerving.

In high school, the first day was one of my favorites. Sure, I hated knowing I had a year of work ahead of me, but I loved seeing old friends, catching up on summer gossip. Here, I sat down and immediately started taking notes. What part of this lecture was important enough to write down? Who was the person sitting next to me? Was I allowed to raise my hand to ask a question? Read More »

A recent New York Times article tells parents to “Please Relax, It’s Just Camp.” It details the fact that parents are WAY too involved in their child’s summer camp experience and are constantly calling and meddling. And yes, the NYT is correct. It is just camp. And parents do need to relax.

However, these parents are sending their children away to live with absolute strangers during some of the child’s most crucial developmental years. I can see how it could be difficult and extremely frightening. But, I think I’m solid proof that, while camp can be a scary place, it’s generally not life-damaging.

During middle school I went to summer camp at one of those camps on a lake with an insanely cheery name. (You know the type, “Happy Valley” or “The Best Place on Earth.” Barf.) At this particular camp, we were NOT allowed to talk to our parents, no matter what. Of course, cell phones didn’t really exist, but parents were told not to call the camp unless of an emergency and even if they called, we were never allowed to speak to them. We did a little thing called writing letters. Remember that? Read More »

A few summers ago, I worked as a CIT at a day camp I had attended as a child. You’d think that going to work at a place that was a major part of your childhood would be pretty awesome, but those eight weeks proved to be an utter disaster. I try not to think about it and, so far, I’ve been fairly successful at suppressing those memories.

But this article in the New York Times reminded me of a particularly nasty piece of work I encountered during my counseling duties that summer. She was the mother of two abnormally hyper and mischievous twin boys who I had to supervise on the bus every morning and afternoon. Frankly, the kids were easier to deal with than this woman. She makes the helicopter mothers mentioned in the article appear to be merely “concerned.”

In addition to supervising a group of kids at the camp, my older brother and I were bus counselors on the vehicle that transported campers in our area. Every morning as the bus approached her house, the crazy woman would come outside wearing her pink, flowery robe and greet us with a sickeningly sweet smile, only to go completely apesh*t on us that afternoon. She would yell at us the moment we pulled up, blaming us if she got a call that day from the camp about her devil spawns’ misbehavior.

I’m pretty sure she was bipolar, because one moment she would be calm, and the next she would be screaming like a banshee about how the camp was lying about her boys’ behavior and how we should be fired for not doing our job. She called the camp director just about every day to complain about us and the lousy job the boys’ group counselors were doing. I fought the urge to tell her that her parenting was the problem, not our performance. Read More »

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