I went to summer camp exactly twice.
The first time barely counted: I spent a week at a very intense gymnastics camp, so it was much less “s’mores and canoeing” and much more “soul-crushing competition and tears”. I did, however, get to play in those crazy pits full of foam cubes (a secret dream of mine, always), and I met a boy named Kyle. It was one of those fantastic relationships where you decide that you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and then never speak again. And then he sends you a postcard declaring his undying love should you ever make it to the town of Schnecksville (really). So that was nice.
The second time I went to camp was a bit more traditional. I shot bows and arrows, dressed up for ’60s night, and hiked in the woods. I held hands with other girls around campfires, we tearfully promised each other that we would be friends forever, and every week felt as long as a year…until it was over, and then it was over too soon.
Most of all, I remember that end-of-the-day feeling: being sort of sunburned and hungry, and pulling on a sweatshirt over my Umbros (!) before heading down to the cafeteria, a little nervous about the dark woods on either side of the path but loving the way the air smelled - like pine needles and smoke.
The other day I was early for an appointment, so I stopped into American Eagle, and ended up walking out with this sweatshirt. Because it felt just like that. Like summer camp.
(Also, it was on sale.) AE French Terry Hooded Popover.