I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.—Abraham Lincoln I hate camping. Or is it, “I am the sort of person who hates camping.” Or, “I’m the type who puts up with camping only when really good photo ops are involved.”? In the past year, I’ve been harassed, railroaded, and manipulated into temporary tent-living on multiple occasions, which would be odd for someone who actually hated camping. In each case, I had a specific rationale for overriding my dislike: I did it to get those Big Bend photos, to reconnect with a European friend who has romantic notions about the American Southwest, and because My Man really needed a nature transfusion. I did it for them, I told myself—I did it even though I Hate Camping. But this last bout has made
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