The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel. Kat Spitzer

you realize that on top of that $1,800 to stay in an un-air conditioned cabin, we’ve got to shell out $500 more for horseback riding? And they want us to put money into something called a ‘canteen’ so she can have treats each day, or buy a t-shirt. What? Do we have a money tree I don’t know about?” She always asked about the money tree. I think she secretly hoped that one time somebody would answer her affirmatively. As in, yes, there is a money tree in South America that sprouts fifties and hundreds. She would have been on the next plane, shovel packed securely in her luggage.

      My dad just laughed. Money didn’t matter to him. He spent what he had and never knew the word “budget.” He was not concerned. Instead, my mother fretted and tried to scavenge to make ends meet. Sadly, by today’s standards, that camp price is fairly reasonable. I looked up camps recently for my daughter. She’s very little but it’s never too early to plan. Like my dad said, it’s tradition. Nowadays, the same types of camps run $1,500 a week or more, plus extras. I might find myself making the same comments my mother did. It’s all a great big circle of life.

      “Fine! But this is ludicrous. We have to buy her a plane ticket, too!” And so it went, as she called and made the reservations. Hoorah! One step closer to finding my twin.

      • • •

      My best friend, Belle, and I boarded the plane. I had talked her into going and her mom was none too pleased about the price, but had acquiesced just like mine had. Now we were two twelve-year-old girls flying for the first time, and all by ourselves to boot. I was suddenly struck by the feeling that maybe I hadn’t thought this all the way through. Wearing a local radio station t-shirt, and considering myself the height of fashion as I headed to summer camp, I couldn’t quell my internal bundle of nerves. How do planes work again? It seemed like an awfully big, heavy piece of machinery to be able to lift up off the ground and take us many hours into near space. I don’t care how much like a bird it looked. Belle must have been feeling the same tension and sense of wonder, too. She ate approximately sixteen little bags of peanuts. That was back in the day when people didn’t seem to be as allergic as they are now. Peanuts were everywhere on planes. Or, at least until Belle embarked and finished them all off. My mind now raced as fast as the air under the belly of the plane. Besides the fear of flying, would I get thrown from a horse, shoot my eye out with a gun, drown in the lake, get murdered by some crazy killer in the woods (I’d seen the movies), get bitten by a snake? Oh the snakes! Was it too late to go back home? I hadn’t ever been away from my parents for more than a couple of days. This was three whole weeks!

      My anxiety eased a little when we arrived at the airport and saw a person holding up a sign with our names on it, just like in the movies. We were stars! I was already one step closer to being Haley Mills.

      The camp did not disappoint. It looked eerily similar to the one from the Parent Trap. They could have filmed it there, for all I knew. I had chosen wisely. The smell of pine trees, lake, fresh air and woodsmoke filled my head and made me dizzy. I think I experienced some form of nature elation. Growing up in Florida, I clearly spent a lot of time barefoot and outside, but this was different. This was my first time in the mountains. The air felt completely different, like it was a solid that I could crawl into and it would envelop me like a cool, but loving, hug. I was enamored instantly. I signed up for every camp activity I could. I wanted to do it all. The more I engaged, the more chance I would have of finding my twin. Belle didn’t know my motives, she just thought I was overly enthusiastic. I figured I could just as easily find my twin during horseback riding as I could at archery or riflery or wood burning. It was a matter of numbers, really.

      I was a little embarrassed about my appearance, though. I had recently overcome a massive bout of chicken pox, which left me grotesquely scarred and scabbed. An especially disgusting large scab spotted my face right in the middle of my forehead, making me look like my native country was India, if India produced severely pale people. I’m surprised Belle wanted to be seen with me. I would have just torn the scab off, but I didn’t want to face another permanent pit of a scar. I had enough of those already from poor scratching choices. I would have to suck it up temporarily for the greater good of my beauty over the course of my life. Yes, I had painstakingly thought this through. However, I knew that if I found my twin, it would be hard for her to look at me in my current state; forget claiming me as long lost kin. She would avert her eyes. I was the elephant man.

      In the meantime, while I waited for the scab to fall off naturally and my twin to make herself known, I decided to have a little fun. I was scared of many things, but had convinced myself that camp was a good way to embrace what frightened me and face it head on. Horseback riding was a personal favorite. It was terrifying and, in my mind, terribly unpredictable. Certainly those beautiful, mighty beasts would rear their hind legs and kick me into the sky if I traversed any areas remotely behind them. I imagined they would back up to kick me even if I was yards away. I wouldn’t remotely risk it. I walked large arcs around them to avoid all negative possibilities. They say that horses can sense fear and I probably did a very poor job of masking mine when I would say in a wobbly voice, “Hi there, Chestnut. (pat pat). Aren’t you a pretty boy? I’m going to get on you now.” I’m pretty sure Chestnut rolled his eyes and snickered sarcastically to himself. Then, shaking more than California in an earthquake, I would trepidatiously try to throw my leg over the saddle. I was a mess. But then once I was up there, I realized, “Darn, I look great!” My riding boots, my velvet hat, my cool pants. Even though I had on a silly t-shirt and not a cool black jacket, I still felt like I could have emerged straight out of National Velvet.

      I rode and winced and inhaled deeply. I pulled and tugged and twisted the reins and squeezed my legs together into the horse’s sides. I spoke calmly and with authority. I leaned forward, I lifted my butt into the air, and I turned in my knees. I did all these things- just at the complete wrong times. I caused the horse to trot when I wasn’t ready. I made him stop when I thought I was trying to trot. On a number of occasions I had to wait on his back while he defecated. I still loved every minute. Chestnut was my guy. I would report to my parents right away that I wanted a horse. Who would have thought that I could actually ride one? I still worried nonstop that I would get thrown. But, as long as he didn’t paralyze me, I knew I would have to get right back on if he did such a terrible thing. Besides, there was an actual SAYING that dictated as such. I would have no choice.

      I also really took to Archery and Riflery. I have an intense love for target sports and earned my advanced patches with pride. I carry this love to this day and am thrilled that my son is in Cub Scouts so I can have access to some bows and rifles. Here’s the thing, my parents never explained to me that I was slightly double-jointed in my elbows. When you hold a bow, you are supposed to keep one arm straight. But my arm actually protrudes inward at the elbow, so that when I release the arrow, it skims that inward elbow at a high velocity and, well, tears the skin right off.

      “Ow, Omigod!” I yelled, and it echoed off the luscious green mountains. Flocks of birds were disturbed and burst out of the trees. Small woodland creatures stopped what they were doing and turned toward the sound emanating from my location at the archery range. I wanted to say much worse, felt the curses on my lips, but feared the repercussions. I swallowed them whole. Tears welled up in my eyes and I doubled over, afraid to see the blood that I assumed was pouring down my arm. I was whisked away to the nurse’s station to care for my missing skin, luckily only a layer or two and not much blood, and the upwelling of a bump and bruise forming on my inner elbow. I was now even more deformed. Between the forehead, the other crater scars and the messed up arm, I was turning into Quasimodo. NOT a good look for a pre-teen, who already had bad, thick, dark, curly, unruly hair. Bandaged and feeling low, I returned to my cabin for nap/rest/letter writing/package receiving time.

      Much to my joy, I received a package from my mom, that lovely woman. Much to my chagrin, however, she had not paid attention to my instructions about how to smuggle me some contraband candy. They don’t allow candy to be sent to campers, so the camp opened all packages and removed visible violations. The trick was to get creative. Instead, my mother laid the large package of Twizzlers right on top. Nice work, mom. Now the camp directors would be snacking on my favorite candies. She didn’t even put any SweetTarts in the socks she sent me, as I had specifically instructed her to do. Yeesh. What was she thinking? Clearly, she