anniversary

Raised my hand for the first time and swore to defend this Country against all enemies, foreign and domestic, in February. Three months later did it again and then immediately got on a bus headed for yellow footprints at LAFB and Basic Training. Thirty-eight years ago today. Still remember the pre-dawn yawning mornings on the walk ready to march to chow. And the sweltering heat of midday straggles to and from classes where they taught us how to be successful female soldiers. How many new airmen will get sore feet is indelibly etched in my mind. But our arsenal was made of skirts and berets, not carbines, our only ammo lipstick and eyeliner. And our curriculum was about how to sit with decorum, how to stand properly for pictures, and how to look good while marching across the parade ground in heels. Not one darn thing about actual defense of a country, this one or any other. Unless you consider coffee a weapon. And, thinking back, some of the gluck I drank over the years at various far-flung-world-wide-godforsaken-outposts, while never lethal, too often would have qualified as a biohazard. And I remember as soon as the first inspection and confiscation of personal items was over and the DI walked out of the bay, I stripped and rushed to the shower, because the one thing my Daddy told me about the military was not to ever let them see me cry. I remember the way I felt the first time I stood in uniform at attention and heard My National Anthem played by the post band. The tears flowed again, but on that day I didn’t care who saw. That summer my feet grew two sizes. I lost ten pounds. Not too long after graduation, the pounds were back but the marriage was gone. These days I still get up at oh dark thirty every morning but don’t spend money on makeup, normally wear penny loafers instead of heels, and do NOT miss the grinder even a tiddly bit. But the way I feel about service to my Country has not changed. And I’d do it all again. In a heartbeat. In the blink of my un-mascaraed eyes.