On Freedom and Independence: Eleven-Year-Old Boys

On Freedom and Independence: Eleven-Year-Old Boys

When eleven-year-old boys walk and talk their whole bodies are busy in the conversations and they weave in and out of one another as they go. Eleven-year-old city boys camping, ride bicycles freely as we once did, up and down the cul-de-sacs, no helmets, no curfews, no limits. Coming and going as they please, a first taste of freedom and independence. Mine comes in only to water and feed, dropping his bike at the base of the cabin. Some eleven-year-old boys don't care for how their mothers dress when they go camping. The other mothers clad in spaghetti-strap tops and short-shorts head down to the beach as his own covers up her skin and wears a hat that dares the sun to even flicker. They feel free to say, "Why do you have to be the only one who dresses so weird?" And "Do you know your nostrils are uneven?" Eleven-year-olds still build sandcastles at the beach, still snuggle in at the end...
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Glamping

Glamping

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I don't want to go camping. I definitely don't want to go glamping. Glamping could be one of the most unforgivably cringeworthy words I know. It sounds like a vise. A tool that clamps. A glamorous clamp. Speculum to the stars. I've done it again. I've gone too far. And I've only just begun. Because now they want me to verb it. Sure as there are stars above, tomorrow we will all glamp together under solid cedar roofs. Glamourous camping. Fine linens. (We'll see about that.) Flinens, maybe. Towels. A country mart store with organic food, aromatherapy and local artisan jewelry. No one hates camping more than I do. I have not had a great time of it. In college, the guy I went with had us sleep under the stars in the middle of an ant hill. I like room service, a big bathtub and a nice turn down service. I like someone else to lug my bags and...
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