I am a sleepaway camp survivor.

For me, camp was always a love-hate relationship, with the emphasis varying wildly depending on the day, the weather, if my bunk mates were fun, into short sheeting a bed and the quality of the candy stash they received in the mail.

My parents shipped me off to Camp Ponemah in Kent, Connecticut when I was five years old.

Five.

I consider this child abuse.

Over the years I taunted my mother about this act of cruelty along with the hideous bangs she saddled me with. She would look horrified and then her comeback was I was lucky to have parents who cared enough and had the money to send me packing for two months every summer.

My father, however, was hopeless. The man never experienced guilt. Not once. He worked six days a week and seemed perfectly content having two months of relative peace and quiet with my mother, his beloved Queen E. As far as he was concerned, camp was one of the finest inventions in modern parenting.

Before sleepaway camp there was day camp beginning at age three followed by thirteen years of sleepaway camp. Then a Teen Tour across America at sixteen and two more years of serving as a junior counselor.

Apparently, my parents were determined that I should never spend a summer at home.

Recently, I read about the growing popularity of adult sleepaway camps.

Now that actually makes some sense.

Many sound like Club Med without the pressure of fitting into a bathing suit doing a downward dog beside a twenty-five-year-old cellulite-free yoga instructor.

One luxury weekend camp for women in Pennsylvania proudly advertises: “99% arrive solo, 100% leave as friends.”

For roughly $1,000, attendees enjoy a male-free environment featuring yoga, pilates, arts and crafts, swimming, tennis, campfires, cocktails, and endless opportunities for female bonding.

The arts and crafts component concerns me.

I have already made enough lanyards, pottery ashtrays, friendship bracelets, and uneven coffee mugs to last several lifetimes. I do not need a refresher course.

Many women attend to make new friends, which I find slightly overrated.

I already have friends. They require maintenance, texts, birthday gifts, restaurant reservations, and occasional emotional support. I am not sure I need an additional roster.

As a kid, I preferred coed camps because I could play sports with the boys. In those prehistoric days, many girls were far more interested in hair braiding, makeup, and discussing crushes.

Meanwhile, I was memorizing Yankees statistics, obsessing over the NY Football Giants, playing tennis, swimming, and generally sacrificing my body in pursuit of victory.

I was not destined to become a braid enthusiast.

I also attended an extremely fancy fine arts camp for girls where I spent time among the rich, famous, and future trust-fund recipients.

Highly overrated.

Turns out money does not make people more interesting. It just allows them to arrive carrying more luggage filled with colorful cabana sets along with Pappagallo flats to match each outfit.

I can absolutely see the appeal of an adult sleepaway camp. A weekend with no cooking, no laundry, no errands, no decisions, and no one asking where the extra batteries are sounds lovely.

But personally?

If someone hands me a thousand dollars and a free weekend, I am choosing an island, Paris, or anywhere that involves room service and my husband.

That said, if you have never experienced camp or if you desperately need a break from your spouse, children, coworkers, neighbors, or the general state of humanity, adult sleepaway camp might be exactly what the counselor ordered.

I have served my time.