Although I’m not what you would call an “avid outdoorsman,” I do like being outdoors. Weather permitting, I enjoy hiking, kayaking, skiing, walking, swimming, and the occasional curling match. But there¹s one thing I can’t tolerate: camping.

My wife loves camping. All of my friends love camping. I can’t stand it. While everyone else thinks that it’s because I don’t like “being one” with nature (a phrase which always sort of creeps me out), it has a much simpler explanation: I don¹t like to pretend I’m homeless. Nothing against the homeless, but millions of years of evolution tells me that living indoors is preferable to living outdoors, what with the roof and walls and whatnot.

Again, this has little to do with enjoying the outdoors. The Pacific Northwest has a bevy of beautiful, varied terrain from the mountains to the desert to caves to the ocean, and I’m not saying that just because I like the word “bevy.” There are thousands of inspiring natural features here, and I’ve enjoyed many of them. But really – there’s no need to live there. That’s why God made the Holiday Inn.

Because when you think about it, camping is more of a hassle than anything else. Have you ever taken a weekend camping trip? It takes a day to pack up and drive there (loading your gear into your trunk is like playing the world’s worst game of Tetris), sherpa-ing all the gear to a camping spot (“No, no this piece of jagged, rock-hard dirt is far superior to that one close to the car.”), unpacking the gear, setting up camp, pitching the tents (deciding which of the tent’s icky canvas sides you would prefer stuck to your face by morning dew), while still allotting some time to be gnawed on by myriad gigantor woodland insects. You can enjoy maybe a day of nature, and you then have to pack up all the stuff you just brought there and go back home. It’s really an inefficient use of time.

Some people give the argument of, “But I love being out there with the elements ‘just me and nature,’ it’s so primal!” Really. Remember when our ancient ancestors lit their 100,000-watt lantern to hook up the propane flapjack griddle while they munched on their Ranch Bugles next to the fire pit? Or when they put their Gore-tex windbreaker on to settle into their padded folding chair next the ice chest and put microbrews in the chair’s cup holders? If you really want to experience nature, I want to see you plunk yourself in the middle of nowhere without equipment wearing just a loincloth, ok Squanto? We’ll see how well Mother Earth takes care of you.

Back to the issue of coming back home. You¹ve “enjoyed” your day of nature, now you have to spend several hours putting the things you¹ve just unpacked back into your car. And let me tell you, it’s going to fight going back in. Somehow you now have three carloads full of crap instead of one, because the woods apparently multiply your possessions while you sleep. (And when I say “sleep” in regards to camping, I mean “when my body is 400 degrees in the sleeping bag, my head is 12 degrees outside the sleeping bag, and the stump I’ve accidentally set the tent on is getting a little too friendly.”) And everything you cart back home ­ including you ­ has that “camping smarm” on it: that campfire smoke/dried sweat/sticky hands/forest floor/insect spray/dirt layer of filth that’s coating you and everything you own. Once you¹re home you have to take all your stuff back out of the car, put it away again (campers must love mundane repetitiveness), and do the 12 loads of laundry it takes to get the camping smarm off your sleeping bags and clothes. I feel relaxed and rejuvenated already.

The way I see it, to camp is to do a phenomenal disservice to our ancestors. Can you imagine going back a thousand or a couple thousand years and telling the people frantically burrowing into the side of a hill for warmth, “I¹ve got a house, bed, pillows, blankets, fridge-full of food, chairs, couches, and showers. “But you know what? That’s not for me. I’m ‘outdoors-y.’” Good luck with that. After you recover from the punch in the face (or mace to the skull or blow dart to the neck or whatever they did back then), you will then be offered up to their gods as a sacrifice to ward off extreme stupidity. The people that came before us worked really hard for us to not live outside. We should honor their spirit.

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No animals were harmed in the making of Todd’s vast mink coat collection. Except for the minks.