Comfort
I'm alone and it's time for a little company. I'd like to talk to someone besides my dog about anything that's mildly interesting. I'd like a friend who is smarter, funnier, and prettier than me.
In the Navy you're always part of a group. You can't escape it. Your clothes and the way you wear your hair remind you. Even when you're away you remember. On vacation, shopping at a mall, you realize that you're carrying your bags, purse, and soda with your left arm while the right is fee--you do it so you can salute officers that aren't there. At restaurants you're appalled when someone places a hat on a table. You wrinkle your nose when the buttons on a man's shirt don't align perfectly with his belt buckle and his fly. You do all of those things because you were taught by the Navy. And it's the nose wrinkle, the shudder when you spot a headless hat on the table, and your aching left forearm that all make you feel like part of a group even when you're alone.
Out of the Navy I don't have those visceral reactions and am rarely reminded of something bigger than myself. Without forced discipline to put me in my place, I'm left unchecked.
Living among throngs of people is protection. Anonymity is armor. Art is comfort.
posted by Jessica at 20:05
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