If you ask me whether I’m an indoors or outdoors person, I’ll tell you without hesitation; indoors, a hundred times over. It’s not that I hate nature or fresh air, but there’s something about the comfort of four walls, a cozy blanket, and a good movie that feels like home.
I’ve tried the outdoor life. I really have. There was a time I thought maybe I was missing out, that maybe I’d fall in love with the thrill of adventure. But let me tell you about the day I confirmed, beyond any doubt, that I belong indoors.
It was a bright Saturday morning, and my friends had somehow convinced me to go on a "fun" beach trip. “You’ll love it!” they had said. “You need to get out more,” they added. I knew deep down that this was a terrible idea, but I didn’t want to be the party pooper
So, I went.
And from the moment I stepped onto that burning-hot sand, I regretted it.
First, the sun was unforgiving, beating down on me like it had a personal vendetta. I was sweating in places I didn’t even know could sweat. Then, just as I was trying to adjust, a gust of wind blew, sending sand straight into my mouth, eyes, and even my drink. Lovely.
My friends were running around, laughing, playing volleyball, while I sat there, trying to convince myself I was having fun. I've never felt so miserable. Then came the water. They dragged me to the shore, and as soon as the first wave hit me, I lost my footing and ended up swallowing what felt like half the ocean.
That was it. That was my breaking point.
I went back to my towel, wrapped myself up like a burrito, and waited for the day to be over.
That night, when I finally got home, I took the longest shower of my life, made myself a cup of tea, and curled up with my favorite movie. As I sat there, in my safe, cozy space, I knew the outside life isn't for me.
This, this was where I belonged. No sunburns, no sandstorms, no surprise saltwater attacks. Just me, my screen, and a world I could escape into without any discomfort.
So, no, I’m not an outdoors person. Never have been, never will be.
