As a mildly chubby and spectacularly lazy child, I was never particularly into camp. Nevertheless, my parents sent me, in an effort to make me mildly more active: while the other 14 Emmas in my bunk threw themselves into tubing, lanyard-braiding and baking monkey bread, I was more the type to lounge wistfully on my bottom bunk, writing overwrought postcards to my mom and dreaming of all the Lizzie McGuire and Sister, Sister episodes piling up on my TiVo at home. These days, the inherent privilege of being able to attend camp in the first place isn’t lost on me: partially because I’m ever-so-slightly less entitled than I was at ten years old, but also because my pandemic yearning has suddenly taken the shape of desperately wanting to find myself back in a rickety wood cabin, surrounded by friends decked out in braces, camp T-shirts and a veritable rainbow of Soffe shorts.
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