Roughing it: A conflict of interests?

My boyfriend is an Eagle Scout. He likes to get dirty and make things with his hands. I can tell the closer we get to warm weather, the more excited he gets at the prospect of being out in nature. This weekend, he looked at me and asked me if I was capable of "roughing it." I ceremoniously told him it depended on what his definition of "roughing it" was. This conversation also led to a subsequent conversation with my pal Charles, who probably shares/understands my love for the comforts of modern society more than most:

Me: Camping. Chris wants to camp this summer. Probably a lot. He’s worried I’ll girl out on him. I want to be the Bree Van de Kamp of camping. Effortlessly striking, yet totally capable. He keeps asking me if I know how to “rough it.” That makes me nervous.

Charles: I fucking hate camping more than almost anything. If I wanted to sleep in the woods and eat cold food and dig my own hole to crap in I would just move back to JC! Tell him to have fun and go to the spa with me instead.

While at one point in my life (age 7 and under?), I probably would have gotten dirty with the best of them, I begrudgingly admit that it's possible I've become somewhat of a priss. I've always had an interesting duality: effortlessly balancing equal parts priss and tomboy. When I was 4, you could regularly spot me wearing a pink frilly dress with a sensible hiking boot. I hope this duality has carried over into my adult years. Right now, the priss seems to be stomping the tomboy down with her shiny patent leather stiletto.

I'm sure the sequel to this post will appear a few months from now, either telling you that Charles was right and I should have gone to the spa or that I surprised the hell out of Chris and held my own against the elements. Or, perhaps I could persuade Chris to go Glamping. After all, aren't relationships about compromise?