Just a couple of weeks ago, we went camping with friends. And our dog.

She takes on an alternate persona when we camp and becomes Captain Camp Dog, and she finally earned the Captain part of that moniker. Several of us were out in the lake, not really swimming but floating in fairly shallow water and just enjoying the day. One friend brought kayaks, and with the assistance of my husband, she gently rowed out from the shore with none other than the Captain nestled in front of her.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean… er… *lake*.

I have to admit that spooked me just a bit. She has a dog flotation vest with nifty handles on the back, and since she’s just not that big, it’s an easy matter to just pick her up like carry-on luggage. She would have been safe in the water, but that’s not what surprised me.

Going backward a year or so, my husband decked her out in that nifty new flotation vest and a float mat meant for dogs. He tried pretty valiantly to coax her into the water, but schnauzers aren’t exactly known for being water dogs, and she wasn’t having any of it. We did blow up the float mat and just let her sleep on it in camp on occasion, but was that enough for her to finally decide to actually go out in a boat? I don’t know, but the Captain finally sailed.

After that, we put her on the float and gently took her out into the water — several times over. She didn’t exactly bound out there like a labrador, but she did seem happier to be out with us than on shore alone. So much so that one of our friends snapped a photo of hubby and I, floating her back to the shore between us. Yep, that’s my sweet camper dog in the photo.

Sure, plenty of clichés apply: you can’t teach a dog new tricks, but at 7, she did just fine. They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, but that’s not what happened, here. The method and the circumstances were different than when we attempted to get her interested last year, so she reacted differently, and it worked. After all, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Solutions to difficult problems often require lots of trial and error — and different methods. That’s the reason Captain Camp Dog is no longer a landlubber; it took patience, distraction, a different approach. If at first, you don’t succeed…

Clichés aside, trying different methods until something works can be both nerve-wracking and rewarding. I can’t tell you how many attempts I’ve made to lose weight in the past; I honestly don’t remember them all. Just because I wasn’t successful, before, doesn’t mean the goal isn’t possible; it took the willingness to try yet again, vary my methods, change my mindset, being flexible with what I was willing to accept as success.

When I changed my mindset and my approach, my perspective about things that had previously derailed me or set me back also changed. Life happens; I must adapt. Currently, that means accepting that I’ve put a few pounds back during recent challenges and am in the process of taking them back off. Sure, it bothers me, but the solution is never simply to give up.

Not when I’ve learned that try, try again really does work.

On Monday, my husband got himself a new knee. In a few more months, the other will also be replaced.

Originally, the plan had been for me to have both of my knees replaced, but a car accident changed those plans.

I admit it’s been really tough for me to go through this, since I’ve been working toward knee replacement for a number of years. I was told in 2005 that I’d likely need at least one knee replaced, and by 2008 or so, having both replaced became a certainty. My weight and health prevented that, and quite frankly, I wasn’t mentally and emotionally ready to take that step, so I went through a litany of treatments to prolong the inevitable.

Beer?

In 2013, I finally started down the path I currently am on; the most successful of my weight loss efforts, and the most relief I’ve had for my knees, to date. A year ago, I would have told you that 2017 was my year to finally commit to surgery and replace my knees, but as fate would have it, a negligent driver pulled in front of my husband on a local highway and put those plans on the back burner.

The pendulum has swung in the opposite direction and we have switched places. Where I was once dependent on him, he is now dependent on me. I find this a bit of a shock, as I’m sure he does, as well — although I have no doubts he will see marked improvement from one day to the next. Yet, he’s struggled, knowing he can’t help me do the tasks that must be done.

In truth, had I stayed at my former weight, I’d be useless to him right now. I would have been unable to even walk far enough to visit him in the hospital, let alone the things I’ve needed to do, both for him and for our household, since then. He was my caregiver, then, pushing me in a wheelchair when I could not stand the pain of walking. I am his caregiver, now, as he regains what was lost.

The morning I knew he would be discharged from the hospital, I had a bit of an anxiety attack. Sometimes, the things I’ve accomplished don’t seem entirely real, and I have to admit I was terrified of him coming home and not being up to the task of caring for him. It’s one thing to be able to boast that I’m up to walking 6,000 steps a day; it’s entirely different to realize you are fully responsible for taking care of someone else, temporary or not.

One was a choice. The other was a requirement. I was way out of my comfort zone, and I still am. I’ve been the gimp around here for years; switching places with my husband had never been in the plans. I have not necessarily handled the stress well and met it head-on, brimming with confidence. No, it’s been more like — quite honestly — being scared shitless to be the one who must carry the burden.

Then again, this is life. It’s the life I’ve been training for since the day I decided to try to lose weight again. Sure, it matters that I can walk a lot better than I used to, but it matters more that I’m up to the task of caring for a loved one, physically able to drive, to walk, to carry, to support, to constantly move, to be strong when necessary.

Because that’s the way I break the walls down and live.

Raccoons are evolved opportunists.

As many years as I’ve been an avid camper, I thought I had learned all their tricks; apparently not! I am writing this week’s blog from the shores of a lake at a state park, where I’ve been for the past week, enjoying my food (and brain) vacation. Really, the most stressful thing I’ve dealt with all week has been the raccoons and other opportunists.

This particular campground is overrun with them, and midweek, when the campers tend to thin out, the raccoons are… well… exploring all available possibilities. We had already been here for several days when a raccoon the size of Jabba the Hut dumped the trash over not three minutes after I’d gone inside the camper. Hubby usually takes the trash before he heads to bed, so it was before our regular time. Captain Camp Dog was just inside the camper, and I suspect Jabba saw the opportunity and seized it.

Not me. I like pizza with EVERYTHING.

Jabba or his brethren had already been inside a friend’s cooler, robbing it of grapes but leaving lettuce and carrots. (And firmly closing the lid when done.) The trash invader returned about midnight, when my husband found him on top of our outdoor camping refrigerator (standard apartment fridge), trying to open it from the top. He didn’t get in, but he also didn’t seem to care about the sack of potatoes that had been left in easy reach for the last few days.

The next night, sitting fireside with Captain Camp Dog at the ready, a younger Jabba warrior kept approaching the campfire just after dusk. I shined my cell phone’s flashlight at him and he scooted up a tree, yellow eyes glowing in the dark watchfully. Five minutes later, he was about 25 feet away from me and creeping up. He did this several times, despite the Captain’s stern orders to stay away from the perimeter or risk The Plank (Schnauzer-speak for “I Will Bark Until I Lose My Voice”), finally snagging a lone piece of bread that had been pulled out of the fire ring by previously marauding crows.

In addition to this, a squirrel bit through the end of a loaf of bread left on the table while we swam, giving up tail hairs on a nearby fly strip for his efforts. The remaining bread was thrown into the fire ring as a result, the crows pulled out bits of bread while we were out of camp, and the raccoon got the remainder. Something else decided the dry corn kernels inside the bags of our Baggo set were tasty.

Squirrels and ducks have been as close as 5 feet away, hoping for a handout all week. We don’t believe in feeding wildlife human food, at least on *purpose*, but the little opportunists certainly got more than their fair share out of us on this trip. We’ve been putting up everything within sight, only to realize what was forgotten when they show up to invade, again.

I find it odd, though, that other than the dried corn, the things these animals all wanted were things they would never get in their natural world (except for the grapes). Bread, meat, dinner leftovers in the trash? Oh heck YEAH! Potatoes, lettuce, carrots? No, we don’t want healthy veggies, thanks!

One internet search on raccoon dietary preferences reveals what I already know: they will eat pretty much anything, including catfish bait my husband accidentally left out on our last camping trip.

In fact, they seem to be a lot like humans.

Good old Jabba the Hut Raccoon got that way because he’s a successful camp invader, and his portly self prefers human food (in the FRIDGE!) over readily available veggies. Not unlike us! Given a choice, he’ll eat garbage instead of what’s likely more correct for him. Raw potatoes? Not when there’s bacon and hamburger in the fridge! Meanwhile, the poor Captain has had to endure dog-healthy meals of things I know are safe for her. She’d rather be a raccoon, I suspect.

We are hardly the only creatures that will choose things that aren’t good for us, despite supposedly being more evolved. Carrots, or cake? Are we raccoons by nature, bound to shove our faces full of goodies if they’re available? Maybe so!

Monday, I return to proving I’m higher up the evolutionary ladder and choosing foods I know are good for me. I’ll be making the conscious effort to resume my weight loss efforts and push ever downward. But in the meantime…

When you fail to plan, plan on failing.

Sometimes, you just gotta go with the flow.

All clichés aside, I’m currently attempting to juggle these two things. Sometimes, you can plan things until you’re blue in the face — and sometimes, maybe the best reaction to a situation is to understand that what happens over a short period doesn’t have to become the norm for a long period.

Good thing that’s not MY sign!

I’m about to go camping for what will be our longest trip this year (8 days), followed closely by seeing my husband through knee replacement surgery. Both have their challenges; thank goodness I’ve become more able and adept at handling camping tasks, because right now, hubby just can’t do everything he’s been able to do in the past, but I have faith that after he recovers, he’ll be able to regain what he’s lost.

This will be my vacation this year, and I plan on enjoying it, increased workload aside; that’s really more for setup and breakdown, so I’ll have plenty of time for doing restorative things, like editing a book I plan to publish, reading, maybe coloring, maybe knitting. Enjoying time with some great friends. Hanging out both in and on the lake. Cuddling with Captain Camp Dog, who’s still trying to recover from spazzing out over 4th of July fireworks.

That’ll include taking a few days to eat things that aren’t normally my way of eating; a food vacation, of sorts. I know I’ll pay for it afterward, and I already have a plan in place for when I return.

As I mentioned, shortly after we return, hubby will be in the hospital for the first of two knee replacement surgeries. Originally, the plans had been for me to have my knees replaced, but sometimes life throws you curve balls, and now I have chosen to use my extra time before my own surgeries to lose even more weight and strengthen myself as much as possible. Because the rest of my summer will be spent assisting him in recovery, it’s also the perfect time for a reset; I’ll be back to working toward my goals.

Essentially, I’m doing both planning and going with the flow. I know I will enjoy my vacation, and I know I will have work ahead of me.

Much like my journey, I’m still going in the same direction, but to extend the metaphor, I’m going to knowingly jump off the interstate for a bit and take a slower, more scenic side road, because I know there’s construction ahead and I know how to deal with it.

I’ve just come back from another camping trip — this one full of perfect June days and relaxation, complete with gentle lakeside breezes and windows open to the sounds of nature at night.

This was a good trip for me, personally; I met my step goal every day but one, but I overdid other days in offset. I did that without trying, and when I first started setting step goals for myself earlier in the year, I simply could not understand how the recommendation of 10,000 steps a day could make any sense at all. But now that I have a step goal just shy of 6,000 steps a day, it makes a lot more sense. Those steps come a lot easier these days! And every week, I set that goal a little higher.

Inflatable Unicorns are REAL, y’all.

But that’s not really what I want to write about this week. No, it’s more about my camp neighbors. Especially one in particular.

I’ll call her Angie, although that’s not her name; I heard her name a few times over the few days she was next to us, but she’s a child, so I’ll give her a different one. She’s perhaps 10, maybe 12. She showed up with her (large) family in tow the third day of our five-day trip.

I noticed Angie because she appears to be mentally retarded; not profoundly so, but enough for her to live completely in the moment. I could tell at a distance by her childlike behavior, her mannerisms, the way she walks and talks. Once upon a time, in college, I worked with mentally retarded adults, so that experience came back in an unexpected way.

Sure, Angie got overtired and overstimulated a few times and had public meltdowns. There were things she wanted and in Angie’s no doubt usually carefully controlled world, they were out of reach and she couldn’t process not getting what she desired. But for the most part, Angie played with a big smile on her face. She squealed with glee. She jumped up and down and ran. She got right in the middle of games her older siblings and friends were playing, like badminton and Frisbee, and they always treated her with love. She rode her bike, complete with training wheels.

On the fourth day, a girl in the camp (perhaps late teens or early 20’s) was given her first bike; she appeared totally normal but had never had a bike, never knew how to ride one, and spent some time with various people trying to tell her just how easy it was to do. Perhaps to them, it was, but to her, it was new and a bit scary; she was unsure of herself but by the time we left, she was slowly getting the hang of balancing and peddling — things Angie can do easily, despite her limitations.

The thing is, I doubt Angie even knows or realizes she has limitations. She lives in the moment, whether it’s a temper tantrum or sheer joy. Someone bought an enormous pool/lake floatie that looked like a unicorn; I saw Angie, yesterday, joyfully carrying on an imaginary conversation with it.

Sure, you can argue that there’s a lot Angie doesn’t know about her plight. She’ll likely never hold a job outside one designed for disabled assistance. She may never marry or have children. She just might be an obligation to her parents well into her adulthood. She’ll never know much of the everyday experiences you or I know. She may never drive a car, play a musical instrument, edit a spreadsheet, operate a smartphone, take a Mexican vacation.

But for all that, Angie is one happy little girl. She doesn’t know (or care) that she’s not like anyone else. And in that, she’s quite fortunate. She’ll never be a fashion model, but neither will I. In fact, Angie’s existence makes the argument for existing in the moment and enjoying it for whatever it might be, including chatting with inflated unicorns.

Me, I worry too much. I worry about my weight and whether I’ll ever get to the goals I set for myself. I fret over whether brief deviations will hurt me overall. I flog myself for my shortcomings. I feel dumb in comparison to others; I read their words and am inspired by them, thinking myself as somehow lesser in comparison because of my (in)abilities. But am I? Why choose that path, when existence in this moment and loving it for all it is worth brings happiness?

I’m telling you — Angie has lessons to teach us. That simplicity to life is worth embracing.