Double punch

Today I confronted my fears and misgivings and went with Reagan to his "male bonding" event this morning. There was free food after the workout, which promised to make it more social than usual. Instead, the poolee event turned out to be more physically strenuous than usual as the guys ran to a park, did some relays and some wrestling, then ran back.

I met a girl named Rachel, a senior in high school doing ROTC with her boyfriend and two other guys who are signed up to go to boot camp next June. ("June 22".) Rachel and I chatted a little, then I gave her a ride to the park (it takes about the same amount of time to run or drive, turns out) and we continued to converse in a friendly manner while watching the guys get put through the wringer.

One of those high school seniors thought I was 19. :) Another was kinda crazy. The third was Rachel's boyfriend of 7 months. Rachel was the only other "support" person around. She used to be a gymnast (though much more recently than I), and as the park stuff was winding down, a few people were urging us to wrestle. I was amused.

Before we left, I was very resistant to the idea of indulging, in any practical way, Reagan's reality as a future Marine. It felt like glimpsing into the real world from my current fantasy life of luxury. It was looking into a harsh and difficult future without him, a future that's coming all too soon (and yet not soon enough). Sure, he works out almost every day, running and doing weight training, but meeting the people in *that* part of his world (outside Staff Sargent Y) was a little more than I wanted to deal with.

I went anyway.

On the drive Reagan said that going anywhere while listening to my music made him feel like he was in a documentary going on adventures. ((The music in question was "Glory Days" aka: the Gecko song (Just Jack), "Time And Space" (The Accidentals), and "Slow Show" (The National).))

Commence meeting Rachel and her band of dudes, all of whom reminded me of guys I went to high school with. Watching guys wrestle in the fresh-cut grass while first graders practiced soccer a stones throw to our left was not remotely sexy. Fascinating, but not sexy.

Driving home, Reagan asked me if I regretted going. I didn't, and told him so. "But you're going to regret me going." I let him know that his posture, especially during push-ups, could use some work, and his complaint of tallness wouldn't garner any sympathy from me. He promised to pretend not to like my critiques.

The first part of the day was spent dipping my feet in the waters of "associating with Marine-folk". It went well. Unsurprisingly, most of the recruiting officers are friendly, helpful, and not uncomfortable to be around. I had pictured (slightly hopefully, perhaps) a stricter environment, the poolees being driven harder towards perfection. Despite the lack, the whole experience made me more comfortable with the idea of Marines in general and boot camp in particular.

On the other hand...
Cleaning for Brandy's weekend visit pushed me towards confronting the reality of being here. All in all, it may be another 9 months before Reagan has his orders and we move out. True, I may not be here for all of it, or even for most of it, depending on my situation while he's in training, but, no question, I won't be in my(our) own place.

For the duration of our Upland stay, we are in a semi-furnished room, private bathroom, semi-private ante-room, shared kitchen-and-other-downstareas. And for those shared areas we're on unequal footing with our "housemates".

Given this lack of stability with our living situation, I'm not comfortable scheming up my own rules and rhythms of household. Almost as though whatever guidelines and structures I install are pieces of furniture themselves, and the ones we've got already don't match and aren't ours to destroy. Everything is a kludge and there is no circadian flow to our days or weeks or months. There's no limit to the chaos, and I can't impose structure in a situation where clothes pile in corners like snowdrifts because there's not enough room in the nipple-ring dresser than two grown people have to share.

Ignore the big picture. The small picture, day to day, week to week, suits us well enough that it's all taken one bridge at a time. Our lives are made of duct tape, for now and until gravity curves our timeline beyond where I can see.

But I'm fine with it. I spent some time frustrated, dwelling in the bad emotions of anger and self-pity that settle around me whenever I stop flapping my wings, but when I do that, when I stop, I end up noticing that I'm in a free-fall, and every bit of logic and desire points towards me shaking it off and going back to flying the best I can.