The first time I got dragged into the great outdoors, it was just after college. Despite my camping innocence, I instinctively knew to inquire about the bathroom accommodations. I had visions of cleaning myself in a stream and burying my own poo so wild bears wouldn’t track me. Still, I was assured that everything was going to be fine, bears did not live in Central Ohio, and that all I would have to do was squat pee. No problem. Like every woman with a small bladder and a propensity for divey bars, I’ve had years of practice squatting and peeing when intoxicated. But it seems environment really does make a difference. In a bar, there is a toilet seat. Sit on it and you’ll probably come away with a strange ass-flesh eating disease, but at least the toilet is there, acting as a potty guide. Take away the toilet bowl, thrust me among some trees, and my squat pee ability goes to hell.

In the woods, it seems a deeper crouch is required. As I learned, if you don’t hunker close enough to the ground and you happen to have Schwarzenegger-strong pelvic muscles thanks to an inexplicable fear of incontinence that you try to stave off by doing gagillions of Kegel crunches, urine goes flying directly from you waw waw and onto your pants. Over multiple camping bathroom breaks, I’d adjust my bend height, but I never found the angle necessary to avoid potty pants. It seems my inner sense of physics is broken. No matter how much I thought about force and trajectory and wind drag, I would still end up peeing on myself. Plus, every time I would squat more deeply, I tipped over. There is no explanation for this phenomenon. It’s not my thigh muscles. They can support me fine. It just appears I am a freak with no balance. So, I’d squat, tinkle on my pants and then fall over. Yup, camping is jolly.

But wait, there’s more…I theoretically understand what poison ivy looks like. It’s pointy and my inner Girl Scout knows all about “leaves of three, let it be.” Sometimes the plants come with berries or red tips on the foliage, plus, it can grow on vines. In daylight, when I could actually see it, chances are high I would successfully identify the plant. But nobody told me to bring night vision goggles for camping. And without them, all that poison ivy awareness was worth nothing.

On my virginal camping trip, sometime during the night, I woke up with a savage need to urinate. The excessive consumption of Nattie Light had caught up to me. Sans flashlight, I tripped and lurched my way up a small hill where I found a tree I could hug for balance. Earlier in the evening, after my undies had yet again been soaked, I decided commando was the best option. So, that night it was pretty easy to hang my nekkid ass out of my pants, grab the tree, squat and do my business. The next morning, when I went to break the a.m. seal, I dropped trou again. Exposed to the air, my girly bits felt out of whack. Sort of strangely swollen and itchy. So I glanced down.

Seven Loyal Readers, I’m sure you’ve always wondered what poison ivy on the female genitals looks like. Well, let me enlighten you. It was sorta like every VD on the planet took up residence on my hoochie. Parts of me were so swollen it felt like if the Alien was forgoing chest-bursting in favor of my urinary tract. I wanted to rip off my pelvis with my bare hands. It was horrific. Times a million. And sweet God, did it itch.

So, yeah.

I. HATE. Camping.