When did high-maintenance become high fashion? In the gay world it seems that more and more men say they ‘need’ luxury accommodations just to feel comfortable and they are wearing their increasing delicacy on their sleeves like a pink Prada purse.

I keep hearing statements from marginal friends and arms-length acquaintances saying things like, “First class was sold out and I had to fly coach!” or “This town doesn’t have a Four Seasons!” or “I don’t wait in lines, I do them.”

OK, as a psychologist, I get it. When people make mountains out of molehills, it is because there is something else underneath it. Maybe they feel deeply insecure and need external validation for their worth. Maybe they have a mild form of autism. Whatever it is, it’s not attractive. These gays just seem prissy.

Prissy gays must have everything their way. They demand the ‘best’—and by best they usually mean the most expensive or the latest trend. They must drive a premium car model. They must eat at hot-spot restaurants. They must wear shoes without socks. They must have clear skin and shaved balls.

I, for one, have always prided myself on being able to flex to any situation. I will fly coach, wait in a Disneyland-sized line and top it off with a Never-Ending Pasta Bowl from Olive Garden—sort of a premium guy who runs on regular gas.

Then I went camping.

Now, I had gone camping many times as a child. I went with my family, with friends’ families, with my school and with the scouts. When I was young, it seemed like everyone wanted to pitch a tent.

I can tell war stories, like the time I played dead as a bear sniffed my ear (really). Or floating down a river on a raft for hours (fun). Or the frequent games of strip poker during the scouting trips (really fun).

Fast-forward 30 years or so to me and my packed SUV, off to a campsite in Kings Canyon National Park. This was going to be a cinch.

After what seemed like an endless trip up a mountain after a long journey from L.A., we arrive at our campsite just as the sun was setting out on the horizon. I was desperately in need of a cold cocktail and a hot meal, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

What we arrived to was a barren patch of dirt and a fire pit. There wasn’t a meal or a cocktail on the agenda until we got our ‘housing’ situated, and by housing, I mean we had to find the flattest dirt and pitch the tent—not easy to do in the dark of night.

Then came time to blow up the air mattresses. Two mattresses. Two holes. One hard ground to sleep on. Thank goodness for the Lucky Charms dinner, and the one thing I didn’t get to have on camping trips as a kid—margaritas.

Ah! Good drinks, great people and a roaring campfire. This suddenly wasn’t so bad.

But after a sleepless night on a gravel mattress pad and several trips to the nearby tree, I emerged the next morning looking like a chipmunk did my hair and felt like there was moss growing on my teeth. Little did I know this was the best I would feel all day.

That morning was spent sharing duties making breakfast on a Coleman stove and taking trips to the unlit latrine to see if a stall was finally available. We hiked—or, rather, the women all power-walked and the guys slowly shuffled. Then we drove down the hill to the store to buy firewood and a comb.

By the afternoon I was covered in soot and needed a Silkwood-style shower. Stat! The only problem was that the showers were a mile away; you had to wait in line for 30 minutes and then insert 12 quarters.

Then it dawned on me—I wasn’t as flexible as I once fancied myself. Staying at a campsite with nearby facilities and a cooler full of ice and margarita fixins is really the height of comfort for most seasoned campers. Even so, I was miserable.

This really made me wonder—had I become a prissy gay too?!

OK, maybe I can stomach cramped coach seats, uncomfortable Comfort Inns and waiting my turn, but was that where it stopped? Could I survive on less?

All the judgment and scorn I had for these delicate flowers who insist on high thread counts and low-carb desserts was now squarely on me. Being miserable in essentially ideal camping conditions taught me a lesson: It’s all relative.

Ah, good, lesson learned.

Now, I know we live in America and most of us are used to a little better than just “three hots and a cot,” but the next time you find yourself complaining about your conditions, you need to ask yourself, Why am I being so prissy? Am I in the woods or just imagining that I am?

Come on. No one needs first class, a Four Seasons Hotel or a bidet. You do need food, shelter and a place to relieve yourself. While the niceties are nice to have, you don’t really need them to survive. What you may be missing are good drinks, great people and a roaring campfire.

That is true luxury.