Upon turning 29….with 11 years experience

Almost 2 years ago, I was invited to a farewell for a General’s spouse.  I respected them both – and liked them both - so was always happy to be invited to any event they were hosting.  But we were in the midst of our own move planning, it had been a tough assignment, and so was unsure about going.  In the end, I went, despite feeling old and frumpy.  Not because of DH’s rank or another chance to brown-nose, but because she was the kind of officer’s spouse I aspire to be, and I wanted to tell her goodbye.  I’ve been to a lot of these, but this one has really stuck with me.

At the opposite end of the table was a young officer’s wife. This was their first assignment after his post-college training, so I figured she was 25-ish.  She was shy. She was nervous.  I remember being her.  The biggest event at that point for me would have been helping hostess a change of command for a Colonel in San Antonio – and feeling totally out-of-place when the airmen that were older than I called me “ma’am.”  Anyway, back to the lunch….I remember looking around the table and listening to these women – some I knew well, some I had recently met - discussing moves, Tricare, babies, deployments, deployment gremlins, even injured Airmen we knew.  And that’s when it clicked for me…

Every wrinkle, every extra pound, every scar on my body was a story.  When this very nice 25-ish woman has lived through 8 moves, 2 remotes, a miscarriage, fertility treatments, car accidents, and 15 minute moral calls then she might not look so polished either.  These bags under my eyes are from working extra shifts in order to afford furniture or a computer and from staying up in order to chat across time zones. The lines around my eyes are from all the tears from saying goodbye to dear friends over and over again.  The lines on my forehead are from squinting down airport corridors to see who is coming or watch who is going.  The saggy skin on my neck is from sticking my neck out over and over for my child, whether with teachers or with doctors or with commanders.  The scar on my knee – from trying to tenderly carry my great-grandmother’s broken crystal so I could have it replaced (it sliced me instead).  The countless extra pounds started showing up when we lived in a hotel for almost 4 months and never go away because while friends may come and go, chocolate is forever and much cheaper than therapy!

I’m very aware lately of the swift passing of time. That DD is halfway through her time with us. That we will be packing in just a few months. That I’m middle-aged…if I’m lucky.  So Happy Birthday to me!  I deserve the good chocolate, the good wine, the good souvenirs because I’ll only do this once.

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