Forlorn confessions from a camouflage addict

It began as a lark. All of my friends had tried it and there had been no problems. “Come on,” they urged. “Do just a little.” My friends, that’s a laugh. They didn’t know how impetuous I am, how easily I develop bad habits.

But they persisted, and finally I gave in. “OK,” I said, “but just a little. One line and that’s it.”

But they knew. One line led to another. Before I could get a grip on it, I was making zigzags and splashes, and soon my whole duck boat had a camouflage pattern and I was working on the outboard motor.

Had I been able to stop then, it would have been nothing. I couldn’t, though. All I could think about was my next project. I dreamed about camouflaging. I became unreasonably jealous when a guide showed me his camouflaging technique for duck blinds, broke out in a sweat when my brother-in-law stopped by the house to show me the roll of green and brown tape he was going to use to wrap the barrel of his shotgun.

I spray painted my shotgun cases, then the shell totes. After that, it was my trail bike and even my old truck in great, beautiful splotches of brown, green and tan. My children pretended to ignore what was going on, and though it hurt to see how they scrambled to hide their toys whenever I had a can of spray paint in hand, I didn’t stop.

I tried to wean myself from my addiction by only camouflaging on weekends, but I couldn’t sleep, and I sneaked out to the kennel midweek to camouflage the dogs’ bowls, and then their houses. Once I tried to go cold turkey, but my kids found me in the cellar at midnight with the shoeshine kit and eight cans of Kiwi polish, trying to camouflage a pair of Redwing hiking boots.

That was only the beginning. I discovered a camo pattern called Shadowgrass. Forsaking my paint brushes and spray cans, I began to haunt sporting goods stores, buying camouflage hats, coats, gloves and camp stoves in my new favorite pattern.

I gave away expensive binoculars, hip boots, my rain gear and my backpack, and replaced them with camo patterns. I bought a camouflaged vest and wore it to church. I purchased camouflaged underwear and socks, camouflaged Commando sweaters and belts. I bought a camouflaged fillet knife and lost it the first time I set it down. On a weekend hunting trip, I walked right by my camouflaged tent and wandered 3 miles past camp.

The camouflage toilet paper was the last straw. My family held an intervention. Could I kick the habit that was destroying my physical, emotional and economic relationships, or would I go on camouflaging and buying camouflage until I, too, faded into the background and then disappeared altogether?

They sent me to a psychiatrist. Following many sessions over a six-month period, Dr. Screwluse said I had made some progress. As he noted, I already had every camouflaged item a man could want … well, at least every item in the Shadowgrass pattern. But then my brother-in-law brought over a new Cabela’s catalog. Man, that Tree Bark camo is something!