Today, I went on what should have been, but was not in fact, a very fun hike.

I say it ought to have been fun given that the weather was good and so was the company (my mother). My mother– I like her. Love her even, loads. Also, I pretty much like hiking. 

But this hike, it sucked, and in all honesty, my mother is to blame. Every five minutes, she exclaimed: “isn’t this glorious?!” With such effusions, she turned what would’ve been perfect weather into Too-hot. August sun started to feel like: I want to be in the shade or at the mall or at the dentist, literally anywhere but this, Please God. 

And then she said, (my mother,) as we were nearing the end of this hike– “I want to go camping!”, which made me think, Wow, camping is the last thing on earth I’d ever like to do. 

But this is only half true – I do not want to go hiking with my mother. But to my friends, I have definitely said, “Guys, we should go camping!” – said it a couple times, if not many, many times. While hiking with my mother, that anyone would ever sleep in the woods of their own volition strikes me as insane. But when I pitch camping to my friends – who are mostly indoorphiles – the whole thing sounds quite fun. 

See: I only want to go camping with people who like camping less than me. With them, I am no longer the priss – Now, they are me, and I am my mom; they are repulsed, and I get to be like, “Guys, isn’t this glorious!”

Enthused, ecstatic, eager, and other positive E-words (ebullient!) – are ways I like to feel. I like to like things; I am a person who is Into being into things. Conversely, like-a-debbie-downer is a way I do not like to feel. Nor do I like to feel like a drag, or despondent, or dejected or any other of a series of D-adjectives that mean some version of: Whiney.

Camping and hiking are not the only times I become whiney or turn some D-adjective in the presence of my mother. Take the family dog, for instance. When one of my parents is around, or worse, both, I experience a moderate to very low awareness of this dog’s existence. My parents dote on our pet: they scratch her belly, pick up her shit with a smile on their faces, and wonder where she is whenever she is absent. They call her name from the next room, which prompts her to scurry in, which prompts them to greet her like she’s just come back from a tour around the globe. They tell her she’s the cutest thing that ever graced the planet, and buy her toys. All I manage to do is tell them that in human years, Frankie is nearing thirty-five– shouldn’t she have moved on from squeaky rubber chickens by now? My parent’s abundant affection and attention for this dog called Frankie leads me to feel and exhibit an utter lack thereof.

And then my parents go away– to work, or vacation, or wherever – and suddenly, I am obsessed with this dog called Frankie. I walk her (even take her on hikes!), I feed her, filling her bowl more than I should just because all of a sudden I feel so much love for this animal and want to bring her maximum joy, so yes, after she’s finished the bowl, she may absolutely have a dried cow penis (bully stick) and some peanut butter (right off my spoon). 

The minute my parents are back, my time being Into the dog is over. Frankie may set out on an actual tour around the globe, for all I care.

Complementarity, apparently, is the name for this phenomenon. 

When the seat of Person who loves doing this activity more, or, Person who is primarily responsible for and primarily loves Frankie, is taken, you take the other seat: the seat called, Whiner, or, Uninterested. When the Whiner or the Uninterested seat is taken, on the other hand, then you get to be the one spewing positivity, seeing the glass-half-full, remarking “isn’t this glorious?!” or congratulating the dog for her feat of laying on the floor all day. 

It is fun to be a person who likes things, but more than that, enthusiasm that we cannot relate to, feels like shit. Being in the Not into this seat sucks a lot, beyond just our inability to derive satisfaction from whatever the thing we’re not into is. Doing something with people who like it more than we do is unpleasant in that it emphasizes our own fear, restraint, or lack of energy by placing it next to the positive spirit of another. Their joy feels oppressive, when we feel none of it ourselves. 

So, in conclusion, I resolve to only go camping with people who hate camping. I land on this resolution with full knowledge that it’s probably much more fun to play the role of, Person who likes this thing, alongside another person who likes said thing. A negative and a positive balance each other out, sure, but two positives make a positive. Maybe one day, when I’m old and wise and my psychological landscape is immaculate, I’ll be like, “Yes mom, this hike is glorious, and by the way, let’s go camping,” and “Oh, you love Frankie?, well I too think Frankie is a canine savant superdog precious pea.”

Until then, if you hate camping, come find me– I’d love to take you camping.