At least once a day, I thank God for the fact that my husband is not fighting in a foreign land. Then I thank God that he won’t be going back into combat. Sometimes I even thank my husband for leaving the military, which is difficult for me to do, considering I really thought he’d regret it, and I hate to be wrong. I suppose he could begin to regret it, but so far, so good.
Being wrong about it makes me feel better than being right would.
I fondly remember how he was being issued gear to go to Afghanistan, and how he didn’t have enough time left on his contract to go. Everyone seemed to understand this except his boss.
So, he’d be issued uniforms, vests, boots, packs, and whatnot, and he would begrudgingly inventory them and tuck them all away.
In my world, it would have been like those dreams where you’re trying to run, but you can’t move, or you’re speaking but no sound comes out…
He was more like the red stapler guy in Office Space — obviously much more handsome and verbally acute than Milton, but still…
“Well, I’ll pretend I’m following your orders, because you obviously aren’t listening to me, or can’t understand me, or read paperwork, or whatever, but I’m not actually goin down into this rabbit hole with you…”
I’m glad, unlike Milton the red stapler guy, that The Mister didn’t need to burn the place down to make his point. I’m glad that it was merely a matter of time before proper procedure caught his boss with all the bite of a wayward zipper.
He had some feelings when his comrades left. I wouldn’t venture into those feelings on his behalf, but I did detect the feelings, and they seemed bittersweet to me.
The other day, I found him lacing up some new boots.
“Where’d you get those?” I asked.
“Military issue, Baby.”
“Ah. Cold weather gear they should have never issued you, and yet still they didn’t want back?”
Those boots looked great.
In our new living room.
On his stateside feet.
I clutch my contentment like it’s a red stapler.