©2000-2002 Carole Moore

People are like carpets. They're issued in two basic types: indoor and outdoor. It's quite simple to tell the difference; just wait until it snows. The outdoor types are happy blurs of soggy goose down, while the indoor ones are left to deal with the really crucial stuff such as making sure there's enough toilet paper and pet food. Then, at the insistence of our children (all outdoor types until they hit puberty), we venture outside long enough to soak through one layer of socks before we trudge back in, peel off the wet stuff and curl up by the fire with a bag of Cheese Doodles.

When it's raining, outdoor types complain, settle grumpily into recliners and watch outdoor sporting events in some secret masochistic ceremony only they understand. Indoor types quietly rejoice because the rain gives us an excuse to stay in our pajamas.

When it's blazing hot, outdoor types mow the lawn. Indoor types draw the curtains and drink bathtubs of iced tea while moaning about the humidity.

Outdoorsy people dream of spending their vacations at a national park, eating fresh-caught salmon grilled over a camp fire and sleeping on the ground -- at one with nature. Indoorsy people know the address of every Embassy Suites in North America, call room service for extra blankets -- even in the dead of summer -- and are at one with IHOP's Belgian waffle menu.

Outdoor types buy Gore Tex rainsuits for their spouses' birthdays. Indoor types take the rainsuits back and exchange them for pajamas with feet in them.

Outdoor people crawl around their yards, pulling weeds. They worry about ways to keep the mosquitoes at bay. They grill out and eat on the deck. Indoor people crawl around their rugs with cans of spot remover. They worry about ways to keep the laundry at bay. They grill out and eat in the kitchen.

My husband loves to be outside. He picks the hottest day of the year to climb up on the roof and remove debris. He takes off his shirt so as to tan evenly. He thinks sweating is a noble pasttime. On the hottest day of the year, I rev up the air conditioner, shut the blinds and nag - uh - remind my husband he's not 25 anymore. I slather myself in SPF-50 sun block just in case some sunlight manages to get through the cracks in the blinds. I think sweating is a sign of illness.

When we first married my spouse camped a lot. I made him sandwiches and sent him off to sleep on the ground in the company of woodchucks. And all was well. Then one day, he decided it wasn't fair. He should share his passion for not bathing for days at a time with me, a woman who never sleeps anywhere she can't plug in a hair dryer.

I told him not to worry. Just be sure to camp near a Holiday Inn so I could wave from my air-conditioned hotel room. I would chew my buttery croissant laden with strawberry jam while I dine at the complimentery continental breakfast and think of him as he consumes squashed Pop Tarts and lukewarm Gatorade from his backpack.

Besides, if he really wanted some company, he has two children who think it's cool to go potty in the woods and smell like dirty underwear. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to eat the fish their father catches. To be on the safe side, though, I'll have to remember to cram some extra Pop Tarts in that backpack just in case the fish aren't biting.

Otherwise, they'll just hang around my hotel room and hog all the croissants.