the art of self deprecation

19 weeks.

Shower time is my favorite time of the day. The boys like to shower. They know they stink, and they know they need a shower. One of the only times of the day where we are all on the same page. The guys take their shoes off, line up, and one-by-one disappear into the shower house, leaving me twenty-five glorious minutes of quiet and alone time in my own personal shower house.

It's good to be a female chief for these twenty-five minutes.

About eighteen minutes in, I'm usually done with my shower, and I'll mosey out to the benches and lay down to watch the clouds roll by or play with my phone.

A few days ago, I heard a fellow Chief walking down trails, singing, as he headed to meet up with his group at the shower house. Much to my amusement, he entered the mud room (read: waiting room outside the showers) singing, and his campers said, "that sounded like shit." He responded immediately, "I know! It was terrible, wasn't it?"

About three times a week (at least), I'll find myself thinking, "Self, what does it take to be a good chief in the woods?" Normally, one might answer that question with words like consistency, dedication, patience. Chiefs who are honest might say that crazy is a requirement. My answer: the art of self-deprecation.

Self-deprecation is a key tool in deflecting camper attacks and redirecting their negative attention to a situation in which you have total control.

"Chief, your armpits are sweaty! You sweat like a man."
Yeah, I know. If you come within 4 feet of me, I can actually spray you down. Tread softly, child.

"Chief, you have a beard. You need to shave that thing."
Once I start shaving my legs, then I'll consider shaving my beard. Want to see how long my leg hairs are??
(Mom--don't worry. I still shave my legs. I haven't fallen off my rocker completely.)

"Chief, you're fat."
The better to body slam you with, my child.

"Chief, you've got problems."
Dude, tell me about it. Which one are you talking about?

"Chief, you're lame."
God, I know. I think I'm starting to get used to it, though. Sorry that you're just now having to adjust.

I will walk away from this camp one day grateful because I've learned how to love my imperfections or abnormalities (or whatever you'd prefer to call them), however extreme they may seem when they come from the mouth of a teenager. They are caviar for turning tables and regaining control just when you think you might lose it.

I hesitated to break the news to all of you that I'm fat, ugly, hairy, lame and weighed down with loads of baggage, but there it is. I know it may come as a shock to some of you. Do your best to deal. I have.