So it's exactly two weeks tomorrow morning until I get on a plane, fly to the Banks, spend the night with Boyfriend and then we all pile into two '90s Hiluxes and set off on our two-and-a-half-week mission to Botswana.
And this time I won't roll the car like I did in Malawi last year.
Mostly because I won't be allowed to drive.
Getting very excited about it, but at the same time, shopping for suitable camping-type clothing is getting me down a little. For three reasons:
a) I must resist the allure of all the pretty floaty dresses and silky harem pants and flimsy sandals and body-con party dresses floating around.
b) It's taking me forever to amass said clothing – you'd think it'd be easy, but I've tried on about a million pairs of brown shorts and am now stumped as to what else people wear in the bush.
c) I am not the casually beautiful oh I just threw on a little vest and my bikini and some shorts and managed to look gorgeous girl.
Seriously, it takes advance outfit planning and heavy-duty grooming before I feel like I can reasonably be seen in public. I can only imagine what I'm going to look like after a few days' camping.
Not helping matters is that this time we're four couples, as opposed to the 8 to 2 boy-girl ratio of last year. And while I do play nicely with girls, this means I get to spend a few weeks comparing myself to a gorgeous blonde surfer-girl type, a British bean pole and one unknown, who, given the way things are going, is probably going to turn out to be an Israeli supermodel.
While I honestly like these girls (well, apart from the one I don't know of course), there's a special kind of downer that comes from knowing you're always going to feel like the ugliest person in the room (or desert, as it were).
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