We found out Friday we are NOT getting the house we want. So I figured the best reaction would be to have a few beers in the front yard with our soon-to-be-missed neighbors while Pretty Bride cried and readied for the next day’s garage sale that was supposed to be the precursor to an anticipated new beginning instead of just a chance to get rid of some shit we didn’t want to pack up.
By Saturday about 6:30am, however, I realized that not getting to move right away to the house we want isn’t that big a deal.
The building in which I spend my drill weekends was without air conditioning, and it was in the high 90s outside. I thought, “I’m glad I get to go home to air conditioning and a cool shower when this day ends,” and that made 10 straight hours of profusely sweating balls more endurable.
Today, I spent nearly 2hours in a training session targeted at preventing servicemember-on-servicemember rape. I thought, “I’m glad I haven’t been forcibly sodomized during my 14 years in the service.”
This afternoon, I went to a memorial service for a 30-something NCO I knew who went in for routine surgery last month, but complications killed him. He left small children and a wife with inadequate insurance coverage. I thought, “I’m glad I’m not dead. But if I were, at least my orphaned and widowed survivors wouldn’t have money as their initial concern.”
When I got home tonight and found only a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli in the pantry left over from 7 years ago when I was single, I heated that bad boy up, tossed in some shredded cheese and hot sauce, and went to town on it. I thought, “What the hell am I doing letting my bride prepare fresh, locally grown vegetables and meat for dinner most every night, when I could still be having this hefty chunk of delicious instead?” Or maybe I didn’t. Perhaps I marveled at how I stayed alive in my 20s.
And then not knowing where we’ll live in a month seemed quite wonderful.