I am from Dallas, but that’s not where I grew up. It’s where I went to school, and cheerleading practice, and sat down to family dinner. It’s where I learned to drive, but my road “home” lead somewhere else entirely. My hometown is Dallas, but my home was always Camp Olympia.

As a camper, I learned how to sail and how to share. I made friendship bracelets and lifelong friends.  I spent three weeks a summer every summer in an East Texas fantasyland, where I worried more about fishing line than my waistline. It’s where I learned to compete and where I learned not to. It’s where I learned about rules, despite my (continuous) desire to disregard them. It’s where I learned that if you try to dye someone’s hair black to cover up their highlights, those highlights will turn purple. It’s where I learned how to apologize. It’s where I had my first kiss, hidden behind a tree after Fourth of July fireworks.  It’s where I learned every word to Weezer’s Holiday, and where I accidentally swallowed a bunch of bugs.

As a counselor, I learned about responsibility. There was physical responsibility, like counting your campers and cleaning out horse stalls. But there’s also emotional responsibility, because when you’re living with 13 eleven year olds, you’re more than just the bedtime enforcer: you’re a role model, whether you like it or not. Camp Olympia taught me not to take myself too seriously, and to appreciate a good nap. As a counselor, I learned to wake up with a positive attitude, because you’ll never get your kids to breakfast on time if you’re frowning. It just won’t happen. It’s physics. I learned to believe in myself, because kids can smell fear. I don’t know how they do that.

I learned that working at a desk isn’t all that different than working at a camp. For every hour you spend shoveling horse tonk or paperwork, there’s an hour spent blobbing or creating something awesome. I’m just consistently pale now.

This summer, I’ll drive familiar roads through Houston to reunite with my old cabinmates to celebrate one’s wedding. We used to cheer her on as she held her breath during Dolphin Day, and now we’ll cheer her right down the aisle. We probably won’t be quite as rambunctious. Age does that.

Camp Olympia made me who I am, and I’ll never really outgrow it. But until the next time I can walk those dirt trails myself, I’m blocking all of you on Facebook because your camp photos make me super jealous.

I've been a little bit lost for a little bit of every day for 23 years. Every single day for 8,478 days out of my little piece of forever. 

Not metaphorically lost, although I've done my fair share of "finding" myself. I mean physically lost. Like, whatever part of the brain tells you where you're currently sitting and now to navigate to the next place you're going to sit just isn't developed. Maybe it's a creative thing. Maybe it's a laziness thing. Maybe it's because I was premature. I think it's because my head is just too full! There's a lot going on up here *taps noggin,* and it doesn't leave a lot of space for maps.

Here are some examples of things obstructing my locational memory:

1. The entire discology of the All American Rejects. Every single song. Also, Motion City Soundtrack, Third Eye Blind and, regrettably, early 2000 Swedish pop bands A*Teens and Play, as well as their American counterpart Dream. 

2. Entire movie scripts for the following works of cinema: Bring It On, Mean Girls, Spiceworld, The Princess Diaries (1). Not just the quotable lines. I can speak the entire script. I could perform a one-woman show. I could survive the inevitable zombie apocolypse and then slowly transcribe the entirety of these films with a sharpened chisel on the wall of my cave hideaway. Just kidding, I would never survive an apocalypse. I would kill myself immediately. But I am not kidding about the chisel.

3. Any funny anecdote or piece of gossip anyone has ever told me about someone I do not know. If your cousin once went cow tipping but got charged by the cow and had to run for their life, I remember that. If your great aunt had an illicit affair with a local politician and kept it a secret for dozens of years but finally revealed it on her death bed, I remember that. If your high school nemesis once had an explosive bowel movement at an iHop, I remember that. I am a vault for stranger's low moments.

4. Ghost stories. These have been carefully collected and curated from 23 years worth of horror movie trailers, children's TV shows, books, word of mouth and nights spent hunched in my bed reading r/paranormal. 

5. Any piece of criticism anyone has ever given me about my writing, constructive or otherwise. Luckily, criticism about my physical appearance or personality just evaporate between my ears because I have the rock-solid self confidence that comes with never looking in the mirror or giving a shit about anyone other than myself. But any passing comment about an errant comma or a run-on sentence sits fresh in my mind, ripe with resentment. It's one of my best traits.

6. The handshake from The Parent Trap (1998)

So there, that's why I can't navigate to work without the aid of Google Maps after a month of commuting. That's why I can't tell Uber drivers which route to take or which exit to look out for. That's why I will never remember your address, or even what your front door looks like.

All this is to say that I see every street corner with fresh eyes and furrowed brow, and I'm sorry for always using all of the shared data on our family plan.