Almost Perfect, But Not Quite

I remember the time (actually, one of the times) that I aggravated my first husband nearly to the point of fury (and he was not generally inclined toward rage). It was about 45 years ago and we were scoping out an organized campground somewhere in southern Utah where we planned to spend a couple nights in the great outdoors. In our loaded car, we meandered our way through the various loop roads so I could analyze the pluses and minuses of each site, until I glimpsed the perfect one. “Oh, stop here!” I commanded, jumping out of the passenger-side door and plunking a camp chair onto the picnic table to claim the spot till we could pay for it. “But just in case, let’s make sure there’s not a better one.” On we cruised until I did, in fact, locate a superior setting a ways away, and this time I leapt forth with a sleeping bag in my arms to secure it as well. Fifteen minutes and three passes through the campground later, our possessions were strewn across half a dozen sites and my husband was fuming. “Jesus, Ginna! You’re not buying the damned place!”

Some things never change. As you know, I decided on Friday to take a short car-camping trip at the end of the month. Since Molly and I already had plans to stay at a cabin outside of Yosemite for two nights, I thought it would be good to tack on a bit more nature time to the beginning of that trip. First I examined a paper map and zeroed in on a nice bear-infested state park about three hours from our destination, and then spent ages doing research online about which of the two campgrounds there was more desirable, and which sites were the best within each. There weren’t many left at this late date. In a hurry lest the rest should sell out, I made my decision, miffed to learn that it costs nearly $80 to spend two nights on the cold, hard ground. Here’s what I chose.

So everything was settled. Right? Well…

A few hours later, just for kicks I popped back online to learn more about how the two campgrounds compared to one another and to assure myself that I’d made the right choice. Alas, within the hour, I became convinced that I’d made a terrible mistake. The place I’d picked is more crowded with visitors and is close to the highway where logging trucks reportedly thunder by even in the middle of the night. An hour of website wrestling later, I’d managed to change my reservation (for a $7.50 fee). At last, everything was as it should be.

Unfortunately, yesterday I got curious about whether or not the campground had filled up since the previous day, and in the process I happened to discover that a nearby and well-reviewed site, which hadn’t been available before, was now free. It seemed to have a little more room. So I did what I had to do: for a mere $7.50, I moved my lodgings a few feet to the left.

Much better! 

I suspect I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: a) I am exceptionally neurotic; b) I will never be happy (according to my first husband, anyway); and b) I have too much time on my hands. All true.

Oh, man! I just read the fine print in the state park’s description of my newest slab of earth: “This site may be on a steep hillside and may not be level.” Have you ever spent the night in a tent on sloping ground? It’s not one bit of fun. Jeez.

For unrelated reasons, Eleni just reminded me of the poem Almost Perfect by Shel Silverstein. It is apt. Here’s the first verse:

“Almost perfect… but not quite.” 
Those were the words of Mary Hume 
At her seventh birthday party, 
Looking ’round the ribboned room. 
“This tablecloth is pink not white– 
Almost perfect… but not quite.”

Meanwhile, I continue my steady progress toward ridding my house of excessive possessions, and am reaching the limit of my endurance. Here is just yesterday’s worth of activity. Most of these boxes, laden with books, are absurdly heavy. I have no idea how I’ll be able to haul them out of here. 

Already I’ve had profound regrets about certain things I’ve released into the universe. That old duffel I was convinced I’d never use again? I need it for camping. The remote control for a fancy digital audio tape recorder that I’m trying to sell on Craigslist? Why on Earth did I toss it into the trash? The hand-painted cookbook that a long-lost friend wrote? How did it accidentally end up in pieces in recycling? What was I thinking?