The Burden of Freedom

I’m taking a pause. I want to communicate, but there’s no one home to hear my voice. So I shop, wash the car, make plans for next weekend, and vow to make it to the beach tomorrow for an hour or two to even out my tan. All of it is designed to take up space, to act as a placeholder, until I find a bit of something that really holds my interest. That little bit has been so difficult to find. And I feel like I’ve looked, done my best to meet fate half way: I’m moldable, bendable, and willing. But the little bit never presents itself. I don’t know tunnel vision and am distracted by the periphery: love, travel, music, books, cooking and baking. But nothing ever takes center stage and so I get angry at love for disappointing me, for not taking care of me like it’s supposed to. All I need is love? I married what I thought was love just to have it show itself later and still I sit here wondering what it is that’s supposed to inspire me. I try to fill the void with grooming: haircuts, self-tanner, wax, acid peels, and tweezers as if beauty is an accomplishment. I’m still vacant and trying to meet my little bit halfway. The Navy was an attempt at a distraction so I could purge myself of the rut I was in, refocus, and find what I wanted elsewhere. I told myself that I wanted a trade, wanted to know how to do something other than write a paper or play an instrument. I missed my blue-collar upbringing and wanted it back. I wanted people who weren’t pretending like I was. And here I am: I have a trade, I have a husband, and I have no clue.

I was intellectually spoiled as a child and let to believe that I should not just enjoy my work but need it. You can do anything. They would tell me Find what you love. I later learned they didn’t believe it, but it was too late, I was already convinced. With few limitations I can do anything. But what? I have a friend who calls it the burden of freedom. Maybe someone else more famous calls it that too, I don’t really know, but Anita introduced me to the concept when her Irish passport came in the mail. She could leave, live and work abroad. There was nothing to stop her and that freedom was overwhelming. When she explained the idea it instantly rang true. I’ll see Anita next weekend. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me how she made peace with her freedom. The easiest way is to always ignore it. But tonight I can’t and so I’m stuck here in this stew. Maybe tomorrow at the beach or next weekend with friends I’ll get my first glimpse of my little bit. Or maybe I’ll try to forget about it.

I'm Flattered

Promotion is a mathematical equation that sometimes works for you, but usually fights you every step of the way, if you’re an Engineering Aid in the Navy. The magic equation is a combination of three personal evaluations, a test score, awards, time at your current pay grade, and any bonus points you might have from previous high test scores in your current pay grade. The Navy decides how many personnel they want to promote at each level of pay in each job and looking at the information they decide on a number. If your final multiple is above that number, you are a winner and go on to the next round. If not, you try again in another six months. For some jobs the competition isn’t so tight: after September 11th the Navy decided to add hundreds of MAs (we call our military police Master at Arms) and since that time advancement has been at or close to 100%. Nearly everyone who is eligible for advancement is ordained. Many other jobs also enjoy quick advancement, but the EAs are never that lucky. This cycle, throughout the entire Navy, one EA was advanced to E-6, three to E-5, and five to E-4. So the numbers aren’t so good. They’re actually miserable. But the EA who went with me to Alaska was one of the three promoted to E-5 and I’m so proud of him that every time I see him I can’t help but smile. On Thursday there will be a big ceremony and he will have the new rank pinned on him in front of the battalion. He asked me to do the pinning. I’m completely flattered because I’m not the default choice; that’s EA1 or even chief. And after that is the big default: if you don't choose anyone the CO and Master Chief pin it on you when they present you with your letter of advancement. It never occured to me that he might ask me. But he did. And while I always had a hunch that he looked up to me, it’s nice to know.

Cause and Effect

I try to save my non-Navy posts for the weekend when I'm away from work and have a good excuse to avoid dissecting or reporting my military commitment. But today is special, so I'm going to deviate wildly on a weekday, because I finished my halter-top at knitting group tonight. And really, when I look at it objectively, it seems unlikely that I would spend so much time knitting, and with the women I've met through knitting, if I didn't spend so much time in the military. I left a lot of girlfriends in Chicago - so many of whom are flying out next weekend and I'm so excited I don't quite know what to do with myself - and missed them terribly. Without the tug of that loss, I never would have searched out a group of women to spend time with, and without the group I don't think it's likely that I would knit with such a vengeance. So, it's entirely plausible that the Navy drove me to knitting.

No Mas

Extra PT was cancelled. I’m back early and I used my time to cancel cable. It’s gone. And I feel liberated.

Bones

We re-orged and now I muster in the mornings with Det Cuba instead of Headquarters Company which would normally be a pretty good deal except that Headquarters still wants me to organize all of their training. And that, of course, doesn’t stop Det Cuba from wanting me to run off prints, take care of their training, and serve as the fitness leader. And that, of course, means I have to set an example and go to extra PT in the afternoons with the overweight kids. It’s a shame they have to be singled out… they’re just big boned.

This morning I drove to medical for a blood draw: HIV and lipids. My veins are hard to find so I drank three and a half pints of water to plump them up before I went over there. Still, the techs had bad luck. The first one gave up after two tries in the right arm: one with a regular needle and one with a baby needle. The second tech, who was the only other tech so he knew he had to get it done, tried the left arm once and then went for the right hand where he finally hit a vein after slapping me a few times to make the vein pop. I'd make a miserable junkie. It took minutes to fill two small vials. He told me the problem was a result of my extremely fine bone structure.

I’m just shy of six feet tall with broad shoulders and an impressively large rib cage. Amazon is something I get. Fine boned is not.

Since He's Been Gone

Life is so much different when my husband is gone. This must be close to what it feels like to have a husband deploy: I live my life without his influence eating, reading, and doing exactly what I want and then we speak every few days over a poor phone connection and I tell him a little bit about it.

Because he’s in the middle of nowhere, with no access to even the smallest store, I send him a care package every week not really knowing what will be useful in the back country. This week my best guesses include jalapeno potato chips, jarred horseradish for the instant potatoes he lives on, honey, chocolate, and a funny newspaper article about filming Pimp My Ride in Amsterdam. And at the store when I’m trying to decide what to send I always blank: Does he have way too much tea, or did he forget to buy it altogether? Does he want rapid rise yeast or regular? I never feel like I get it right. But he doesn’t complain. He never complains. I wonder if any of the other handful of men in the park notice that his wife sends consistent and thoughtful packages. I wonder if he notices that none of the other men who work in the park have a wife.

When I take the time to think about his living situation my mind wanders to the electric fence around his cabin and the shotgun he packs with slugs. I hope they are enough to keep him safe from the ten or so bears he sees every day. I'm sure they are. Right now he’s on the coast where the bears go clamming at low tide and spend the rest of their time munching on grass and sleeping, so they’re well fed and never aggressive. Even the new mammas with cubs couldn’t care less if he comes or goes. I don’t really fear for his safety but I’m still unsettled because there’s something peculiar about my husband living a life unknown to me. It’s a huge something that we’ll never have in common. And this is just the beginning: he’s on the threshold of a decades long project that will keep him away from home much of the time. Sometimes I’m in the mood to be an alarmist and I imagine that he’s wounded or dead and I wonder how long it would take for someone to realize what was wrong. I imagine the bears lunching on his corps and wonder if his parents would have any objection to cremating his recovered body parts. I’m sure he’s never discussed his post-mortem wishes with them. I decide to go along with whatever they want. I tell myself that death is about the living.

I shop for a dog almost every day, I think because I want the company, but I won’t buy one until I come back from Cuba. My husband doesn’t come home until two months after I deploy and the dog can’t hang out alone in an empty apartment. I think I want a Black Russian Terrier.

I’m off to bed and I’m going to sleep in the middle.