Tolerance for Roughing It
As I age, my tolerance for “roughing it” decreases. The two are so directly related that one could derive a precise mathematical inverse proportion that could be graphed. My enthusiasm for, say, sleeping in my car at a music festival, or sleeping under the DJ booth at a three-day beach party, or sleeping in a Las Vegas hotel’s poolside deck chair has greatly diminished. I’m not saying I need the SoHo Grand, mind you, I just don’t need foot-long rats in the kitchen at 4 a.m.