Just... burned.

A page of doodles done at the Marine recruiting office in Azusa

Is it possible to be burned numb?

In the scheme of things, it's not any big deal, but right now it's exhaustingly difficult to deal with.

After four hours of last minute paperwork (lots of taking down names, numbers, and addresses, sometimes multiple times) on a Sunday night, the last questionnaire Reagan works through with the Marine recruiter throws up a couple red flags.

They were filling out forms and initialing boxes for R to be screened and tested tomorrow at a facility in downtown LA. I was along for the ride, to get my feet wet. I need to become comfortable with spending time with Marines, especially with the personal inflection of my husband intending to become one.

Four hours--until midnight--with plans for R to be picked up at 4am tomorrow morning and be poked, prodded, and questioned by doctors. At the 11th hour (well, closer to the 12th), he finds out that he would need to lie to doctors or present letters and waivers, or risk being rejected from the Marine Corps. This on top of a day being apart (he worked a full shift), and I'm about ready to crash.

Nothing like being on the last leg of a run, and finding out you have two more laps to go (and we're not even halfway to boot camp yet). No telling how long it will take to work out this new batch of kinks. Should things fall through and him be rejected from serving in the armed forces, prepare for every mention of this part of our life to be scoured from this blog.