6 Ways Being a Military Spouse Is Like Being in High School

As I reflect on various aspects of military life, I am struck by how much it reminds me of high school. From the good, bad and ugly, much of what I endured as a teenager still rings true.

1. Being a Freshman

Moving to a new duty station is like being a freshman. No matter how many moves you’ve done, there is still that feeling of heading off to a new school. Will you make friends? How on earth will you find all of your classes? What will you wear?

As a freshman, I remember the excitement and terror swirling simultaneously. I remember searching the halls for familiar faces, hoping someone I knew had the same lunch period as I did.

I still search for those friendly faces, but now I do it on Facebook.

Belly Wedgie

Belly wedgie (noun). Definition: The condition of having the fabric of one’s shirt caught between rolls of belly fat. Use: She tugged at her shirt to free her belly wedgie from the folds of her stomach.

As I sit here, I can feel my stomach pressed up against the restrictively tight waistband of my jeans. Well, half of my stomach. The other half has burst over the top of said waistband, liberating itself from the prison that is this pair of too-tight jeans.

I'm desperate to hike my pants up to contain my bulge, but I'm in a room full of people. So, I have to settle for executing the "oh, just tugging at my shirt to make sure it falls right" move, which is really just a subtle way of disengaging the fabric from the folds of my stomach fat. It’s what I call a belly wedgie.

How on earth did I get here?

One-Crutch Wonder

When babies take their first solo steps, their faces often light up at the amazing feat they've just accomplished. And, boy, look out, because now they have places to go!

I know that feeling.

Recuperating from knee surgery, I am learning to walk again. While losing my independence has been a drag, every bit of progress makes me feel this wild sense of glee.

When I went in for my first PT session, I was asked to warm up on a recumbent bike for five minutes. I could barely get my knees to go around in a circle. My pedaling was so slow that the machine didn't even register I was riding it.

Two days later I woke the machine. As it beeped and flashed, I knew I had made progress. Once a given during the first few seconds of a workout, that beep was now a major achievement. I inwardly beamed with pride. I did that!

The day I felt confident enough to go down from two crutches to one was thrilling. It meant I could run errands on my own. Once a chore, the prospect of running errands meant freedom.

The day I could wear jeans again was also a banner day. Not only did it mean the swelling had gone down enough that I no longer had to walk around in my pajamas, but it also meant I could hide my prickly legs, still yellowed from iodine and sporting purple-green bruises. Once casual wear, jeans were now my fancy dress.

These were baby steps to be sure, but they seemed monumental. I was on the road to independence.

With each regained ability, I continue to thrill like an intrepid baby exploring and engaging with the great world around her.

There are still frustrations and setbacks. But as the stiffness subsides with each passing day, I think I might just be OK after all.

Even as my knee catches and I lean heavier on my crutch, I tell myself that soon I won't need that final crutch at all.

As babies learn to walk, they have their fair share of tumbles. But they pick up their diaper-laden bottoms and move on undeterred.

I find inspiration in that and hope the same for me - minus the diaper part.

Hardly Rockin' My Resolutions

It’s a week into the New Year and I’ve already forgotten what my resolutions were. Nevermind neglecting them, I can’t even remember what they are.

Last night I woke up with a start because I need to get my car title changed and registered in a new state.

The night before that, I woke up lambasting myself for the fact that in September I vowed to recover some dining room chairs – what should have been a simple weekend project – and they are still sitting in the dining room, their old covering taunting me. One Franken-chair sits pulled apart, which I did back in September so that I could see its inner working and determine what supplies I’d need. My new tactic is simply to avoid the dining room. Dinners on the couch, anyone?

Each morning I wake and give myself a pep talk about eating healthier and losing weight. But by the afternoon, I find myself grazing on leftover holiday treats. How long do cookies keep?

I know I’m supposed to call them goals instead of resolutions and make them SMART – specific, measurable, attainable, relevant and time-bound. I know I’m supposed to make a plan – otherwise they are just dreams and not goals.

Yet the dog needs bathing; I have a prescription refill that’s been waiting five days for me to pick it up; I need to update my calendar; the trash needs to go out; my Christmas presents need to be put away.

With all these things to keep track of, who can remember the big picture like realigning one’s time around personal priorities and finding balance?

Ah, yes! That’s what my resolution was! Prioritize and balance.

I’ll have to add it to my To Do list.

An Open Letter to Cranberry Sauce

Dear Cranberry Sauce,

Has it been a year already? I can’t help but feel a little guilty that I’ve been so bad about staying in touch, but there have been so many other recipes to make.

Now that it’s Thanksgiving again, I find myself getting nostalgic as I look back on our years together.

Remember the old days when I didn’t even realize you were a fruit? Those were some crazy times.

All those years, my mother presented you as a perfectly round slice, ridges from the can still visible on your sides. I thought you were a gelatin dessert.

I still remember the year I discovered you were an actual berry. I insisted on making “real” cranberry sauce that Thanksgiving.

My mother was amazed at how easy you were to prepare, and we all felt much fancier having the real deal instead of the canned stuff.

But then there were so many leftovers ... If you only came in smaller bags.

Everyone wanted the turkey, stuffing, potatoes. But you, Cranberry Sauce, you were just a tiny spoonful on the plate, an obligatory sampling to appease our sense of tradition.

Over the years I tried so many variations on your recipe in hopes that people would like you more. I prepared you as a sauce, as chutney and I even added orange liqueur to spice things up.

Still, we’d have a giant vat of you left after all the other leftovers were gone.

Then there were the years when you were my assignment to bring to Thanksgiving dinner when I celebrated with friends instead of family. Everyone else got the glory of the bird, or the decadence of desserts. I got stuck with you.

As you got passed around the table, some folks would take a taste just to be polite. Others wouldn’t even bother taking you at all. They’d just pass you to the next person.

I confess, that’s when I started to resent you a little.

You’re so bitter. I had to drown you in sugar and even then, dinner guests barely found you appealing. But it was never personal.

I mean, you’re high in vitamin C, fiber and antioxidants.

I do apologize for the years I stuck you with the needle and squashed you on the chain between pieces of popcorn. It must have been horrifying for you to be disemboweled by the birds like that.

But what else was I supposed to do with that giant bag still in the freezer? I had no choice. I had to relegate you to décor.

I’ve had people tell me that you’re delicious in a cake or a bread pudding. But I wonder if that’s what would make you happy. Haven’t you endured enough indignity at the table?

Why should you be forced to be anything other than what you are?

Yes, you’re bitter. But, so is life sometimes.

I think Thanksgiving should be more than a day of looking at our lives through rose-colored glasses. I think we should not only remember, but also honor the hard times as we give thanks. Without dark, we would not have light. Without bitter, we would not have sweet.

I think you serve as an important reminder of the hardships we must sometimes endure, the trials that make our blessings seem that much more meaningful.

And maybe that’s why you have so many leftovers – to remind us that the hardships are never over, but that if we focus on the sweet in the face of the bitter, we can overcome.

Maybe you knew this all along.

Ah, you are wise, Cranberry Sauce.

Well, I’ll see you on Thursday. I’m looking forward to it … and will again next year.

With gratitude,
Julie

Hum’s the Word

There’s something I believe every woman should have. No, it’s not one of the hardest minerals known to mankind that’s measured in carats and clarity. It’s hard, but it’s not a mineral. It’s battery operated.

Things of such nature can be difficult to discuss. One wants to spread the good word, while maintaining a delicate privacy about the matter. Boyfriends might be instructed to obtain one so that you might be spared unsavory storefronts. Gifts might be given to dear friends with the warning to open in private. Discretely wrapped catalogs in plain brown envelopes might arrive at the door with untold worlds inside. There are a surprising number of shapes, features, colors.

As for me, I’m rather traditional. Going old school suits me just fine. But you’d be surprised how difficult it can be to find a plain old Jane – er, John.

Years ago I found a decent piece of hardware with no frills save for several rather surprising attachments. One was a robust and veiny replica of an organ. The other had a long protuberance that reminded me of something aliens might use to conduct anal probes. (Take out the word “aliens” and I think that’s about right).

I removed the main attraction and left the sideshow slip-ons in the box, which I then carefully hid away in my room where they remained secret and hidden for many years.

Until…

You know that phase between living at your parents and striking out on your own? The phase where, even though you no longer live with your parents, most of your worldly possessions remain in their home because your crappy first apartment can’t even accommodate a desk and bed?

I was in that phase and these were hidden in my room – at my parents’ house.

You see, since it was their house, I couldn’t have put them in the trash. My parents would have undoubtedly discovered them and that would have been horrible. Caching them quietly away seemed like the best option. And it worked incredibly well, until my parents decided to have some remodeling work done in my room.

The contractors moved some of my furniture around to do the work and discovered Jimbo and Zorb (untouched and shrink-wrapped, I’d like to add). They could have had a chuckle, tucked them away in another corner of my room and moved on. But no.

They then showed them to my mother. After reclaiming her eyebrows from the top of her head, she could have had a chuckle and moved on. But no.

She then told my brother who could have shared a chuckle with my mother and moved on. But no.

They called me. Passing the phone back and forth, they gleefully shared their discovery with me. They got their chuckle all right, but I was unhappily on the other end of the line.

I could have been spared my mortification so many times throughout the chain of events that unfolded. I could have played it off as a joke. I could have moved to Siberia and never spoken of it again. I could have. But no.

Instead, I awkwardly got off the phone with what seemed like my entire family and withered.

At least Facebook did not exist. I did not have to see a photo pop up in my news feed reading “#discovery – with <Julie>.”

The phone call was bad enough.

So, in the same breath as I encourage every lady to add one of these devices to her arsenal, I’d also like to recommend that you hide your wrappings well.

Barf vs. Poop

I have a theory. Perhaps it’s more of an axiom, as its implications aren’t exactly earth shattering. I believe that throwing up is considered more socially acceptable than having diarrhea.

We brag about barfing. Epic drinking binges from our youth, raccoon eyes from burst blood vessels – puking is often a point of pride.

On the other hand, just typing the word diarrhea feels uncomfortable to me. I imagine it feels uncomfortable to read.

But it’s a fact of life.

The other week I had some kind of stomach bug. During its brief, but terrible reign, I frequently asked myself, “Is it safe to fart?” The answer for several days was a resounding, “No.”

I had diarrhea.

It was awful.