This is another post in my long neglected “Fat Camp Follies” series. Other stories in the series include:
I’ve always been safe. Square. No coloring outside the lines. No rocking the boat. You get the idea!
The third year of fat camp, I was really feeling good about myself. I wasn’t my thinnest (215 pounds- if you can even call that “thin…”) but I wasn’t at my heaviest. I just felt confident. Perhaps it was the comfort of having been to fat camp before, or maybe it was because I was in a “mentor” role (which is like a junior counselor). Whatever it was, it left me a little less inhibited than I had been before.
In previous Fat Camp Folly posts I’ve mentioned the boyzzz. The third year of fat camp, I was 17. I helped out taking the pre-teen girls to behavior modification and nutrition classes across the campus of UC San Diego (where fat camp was). I didn’t go into the sessions, so usually I’d sit outside in the glorious SoCal weather and read a book. I enjoyed the quiet time.
A couple of weeks into the b-mod and nutrition-taking routine, the younger boys started going at the same time. The guy in charged of taking the little boys was B, an 18-year old runner from Santa Barbara. Physically, he was totally not my type. In fact, he was pretty much my anti-type. Bright red hair, pale skin, freckles, thin frame. He was a runner.
I started to really look forward to toting all the pre-teen girls to their classes because I knew I’d see B there. He actually seemed interested in me as a person. We could talk forever. What felt like 10 minutes had been an hour. Of course, there were times we’d see each other in passing, but your schedule at fat camp is so structured, there’s very little free time to just shoot the shit with other counselors.
Weeks went by and I developed an uber-crush on B. He was just genuinely nice, and I loved the conversation.
One night I saw him approaching me with a brace on his knee. Turns out he was running and completely busted his knee. He would have to go back to Santa Barbara the following week for surgery. Away from me and our chats and fat camp. I was devastated. I pretended not to act sad, but he completely sensed it. And guess what? He asked to take me out! Like a date! No one ever asks me out! EEE!
One small problem. I was a minor. To leave campus, I needed a parent’s permission. And even then, it was against the rules for counselors and campers to date. I was still technically a camper. So even if I got my parents permission, it still would have been forbidden. B knew these issues, so together we devised a plan:
- My dorm was next to a side street. I would tell all my suite-mates that I was tired and didn’t feel well and turn in early from socializing time.
- B would pull up at the stop sign on the side street at the specified time, and I’d run out of my dorm and hop in his car during snack time (right before socializing time at night was over).
- I would totally be back in time to get back in the dorm during the middle of the night, and no one would suspect anything.
We didn’t plan what we were going to do- all we were worried about was getting out of camp un-noticed. Everything went according to plan. I got in his car without being noticed. The first time I remember ever blatantly breaking rules. Rules that could have gotten me kicked out of fat camp for good.
Want to hear what happened when we pulled out of the campus? You’ll have to stay tuned for part 2 of the story