First, let me say that I think I have died and gone to summer camp . . . The luxury kind . . . For adults.
Second, let me tell you that my "camp counselors" are so patient with this neophyte. Last night the Wine Snob forgave me for my inability to talk vino. The golf pro didn't say a foul word that I could hear when I knocked a 3-foot putt 10 feet past the hole.
No one freaked when I got tangled in my own fly rod line. And My horse, Anne, and I bonded onthe trail ride. The canteen filled with lemonade, sweet tea and vodka certainly gave me warm feelings toward her.
My fantasy trip to Barnsley Gardens Resort in the foothills of North Georgia's Blue Ridge Mountains has taken me back to my childhood when I spent summers living in a cabin and honing my riflery skills. I love having a similar experience, but in an all grown up way.
Though, when our sporting clays instructor, Skip, strapped a shoulder pad on me this morning, I asked him, "You must think I'm fragile?" He hadn't harnessed any of the other lady "campers" in such a contraption. Maybe it was a compliment to my femininity. Perhaps. I couldn't be sure, however.
I channeled my presumed frailty into inspiration. Bam! Bam-bam! I broke those sporting clays fearlessly. "Whoop!" I triumphantly yelled.
He still didn't let me take ithe protective shoulder pad off. I believe it was a chivalrous move and that's where I plan to hang my hat. On chivalry. Because I'm far too young for frailty. And hell-bent on fearless. And I know Skip gets that about me.
At leat, that's how I choose to comfort myself in this glorious retreat from reality.