Huffington Magazine Issue 50 | Page 120

L ing gym. It was probably obvious to anyone who saw me that I wasn’t a born camper: pale, skinny and shy around people I didn’t know, I took every chance I had to seek shelter in the arts and crafts cabin, where I could make yarn God’s eyes or SpinArt paintings or lopsided lanyard keychains for hours with absolutely no physical exertion or contact with anyone else. But even though I like to joke that I “failed” at camp — which, spoiler alert, you can’t really do, unless you set fire to a building or pull a Lord of the Flies — the experience taught me many lessons that I continue to apply to my adult life. To wit: Carrie is Actually a Documentary I’m guessing prison-style showers are awkward for anyone, but being a hormone-riddled adolescent during my first exposure to group nudity wasn’t doing me any favors. Neither was the fact that one of my chest nubs (I cannot fairly call them breasts, as they were more like an amoebic version, lurching out of the primordial ooze of puberty) decided to sprout before the other, giving my pale, sporadically UNA LaMARCHE BEST SUMMER EVER HUFFINGTON 05.26.13 LIFESTYLE TRAVEL hairy body the look of a tiny fronthunchback. It also did not help that the older and more genetically blessed counselors were shaving their legs all around me. Picture the opening scene from Carrie and you get the picture. Just replace the telekinesis with a unibrow. Nothing Says I Love You Like a Handwritten Letter Granted, in my camp days the cutting edge of cellular technology was a car phone, and the internet was basically just a clip art file of an Camp songs run the gamut from completely nonsensical to soberingly self-reflective, but my personal favorite ditty was a cheerful celebration, in rhyme, of the sinking of the Titanic.” anthropomorphic cursor, but mail call was the most joyous time of each day. There was no sign of familial love greater than a care package stuffed with Tiger Beats and Blow Pops, but running a very close second was a handwritten letter on folded notebook paper, which still to this day makes my heart skip a