Enchilada Goes Camping

And this should be cause for rejoicing, right? Wrong. Instead, yours truly is truly worried about the myriad hazards such a reckless activity can cause. Mind you, the trip isn't until Friday, and I am already hyperventilating about the mosquitoes, the skin cancer, the sun stroke and the lack of adequate food. Most of all, I ain't looking forward to the shlepping that comes with camping. That, I loathe.
My high anxiety notwithstanding, my outdoorsy friends have convinced me that we're going to have a grand old time.
Because of my royal deportment, they don't believe I have ever been camping, but I certainly have. The last time was when I was around 18 years old, and slept (that is, attempted to sleep) under the stars and the udders of camels in the Sinai Peninsula, with the Red Sea at my feet, the stars above me and the majestic Sinai mountains behind me. I loved it, but I was 18.
Before then I went camping in the forests near Mexico City many times. I froze my ass off, slept on top of pebbles that encrusted themselves on my back, got lots of splinters from carrying wood for the fire (and didn't go doodoo for three days). I loved it: I was 8 or 9 or 14.
The only thing that reassures me this time around is that this is American-style camping. Meaning: there are working showers and bathrooms and a general store and, last but not least, a tiki bar (yay!). Otherwise, I would shine by my absence, as we say in Mexico.
If and when I come back from my adventure I will further regale you with tales of the G.E. in the wilderness.