I've never been a "lake person". I don't know about the other 49 states, but in Oklahoma, there are those who would assign a negative stereotype to "lake people", labeling some of them as lazy drunk-os with nothing better to do than float through dirty water in an inner-tube, koozied beer in hand, "Cheeseburger in Paradise" blaring from the boat's speakers.
Now, I wouldn't count my good friend Brett among such a group, which is a bit odd since he is, indeed, very much a "lake person", in that the lake is his second home and his boat is worth more than his brand new truck. Last summer, when I was home from Europe on a break from work, Brett invited me to the lake and I declined on account of my not being a “lake person". Somewhere between last summer and this one, however, I decided that I wanted to see this illusive lake for myself, since Brett and company frequent its waters a few times monthly.
Brett comes from a generous family who regularly offers their lake residence to visitors, "lake people" or not. Despite being told I'd never be offered another lake invitation after formally rejecting the first, I received a Hogwarts letter of a text message a couple of weeks ago, informing me that I had, remarkably, been re-added to the guest list.
During the 3 or 4 hour drive there, we discussed what would and would not warrant an invitation back to the lake. At that point, I was already having enough fun to stop acting unimpressed and began plotting ways to guarantee a return ticket. I told Brett, "When I was little, I would always cry on the last day of trips. It didn't matter if it was a two-week trip or a weekend trip, I'd always get so sad on the last day. If I cry on the way home, will that help?" Brett answered, ever so poignantly, "Actually, I think that'd be a reason not to invite you back."
I didn't cry a single time during this trip, I'll have you know (unless crying from laughter counts). Whether or not I made the cut for the next lake excursion, though, only time will tell...