There are people who choose to do this. More than once.

I, too, was enticed by the rustic vision of communing with nature when a friend of ours suggested we all go camping out on family farm land to celebrate his birthday. It’ll be fun for the kids I thought. I looked to see what sort of camping gear we could get from Amazon before my husband stopped me and thankfully, suggested we ask his outdoorsman brother if we could borrow something they had. Little did we know that he had quite the professional cache of camping gear, and Joey came home with a nice sized four-person tent, 35 degree sleeping bags, cute little camping mattresses to go underneath those sleeping bags, and little camping tables to set in between our tailgating chairs. We were all set for our little family adventure.

The evening began peacefully, gathered around a roaring campfire that the menfolk kept feeding and messing with. I think all men are pyromaniacs at heart—tell me of one male who can leave a fire alone without poking at it and rearranging the sticks because its not quite right? Our friends swapped playlists and we listened to everything from The Band and George Strait to Nelly. The kids ran all over the farm and played hard until our friends that had some sense went back home.

I sat up by the fire until my son called out to me to come snuggle with him. This was just a ruse to get my phone so he could watch Power Rangers, but whatever. I crouched down and tiptoed into the tent, handed him the phone, and zipped myself up in one of the sleeping bags. This isn’t so bad I thought, we’ll be just fine. At 2:30 a.m., I woke up shivering, because apparently these sleeping bags are rated on survivability, not comfort. My kind husband unzipped my bag, put a pair of his socks on me, tucked my frigid feet back in, and zipped me back up in the bag like the helpless creature I am.

At 5:34 a.m., I woke up with a strong urgency to get to the bathroom… quick. I laid there for a good 30 seconds, not sure where I was or why my arms were seemingly strapped to the sides of my body like a mummy. I finally remembered that I had actually chosen to do this and wasn’t being held hostage in the woods by a sick psychopath, and I started fiddling with the zipper. I had almost given up hope of getting out of there without peeing on myself when the zipper cooperated and let me out of the nightmarish cocoon. Then there was the tent door zipper to contend with. Once I was out of the hell hole, I searched unsuccessfully for my shoes in the dark. I was already doing the cross-legged potty dance at this point, so I tip toed over rocks, wet earth, and sharp broken limbs in my socks until I came at last to the oasis that was the latrine.

As I relieved myself, I vowed never to do this silly thing again. I mean really. People spend money on all this gear so that they can sleep on the ground. Why would you risk being eaten by coyotes when you could just as easily take yourself to a Marriott? You want to commune with nature? Wonderful! Rent a chalet in the mountains.

My brother owns a nice sized camper, and my Daddy has—for as long as I can remember—wanted to buy an RV. They want to go places and be outside. I want to go places too, but I think I will reserve a hotel room at those places.

As soon as I got back to the tent and found my shoes, I asked my husband nicely for my keys and said Adios. I’ve never been so happy to see the shining lights of Sandersville, Georgia… and my bed therein.