Two weeks to spend together before I deployed to Iraq. Two weeks to spend together after my spouse returned from deployment to Iraq. Not exactly romantic. Not exactly peaceful.
I spent hours at the mall trying to find the right combination for a sexy but appropriate for public consumption outfit to pick him up from the airport. Nothing seemed just right. Far too safe, far too boring, or verging on pornographic. And then I found the perfect polka-dot top. Cream with black dots and a daringly scooped lace-edged neckline, with the thinnest of black ribbon straps. And then the perfect miniskirt came sailing over the dressing room door from the sales assistant who knew my mission and was determined to help. Tight, black, and cut short enough to be eye-catching, but not so short that my ass would fall of the back. Exactly what I needed! The final touch: an aggressively shaped, cropped black blazer and my favortie black peeptoe heels.
Family had helped secure a fancy hotel out on Coronado Island, and limo service (so ridiculous, but I didn’t care). I checked in early to get everything arranged and to make sure my outfit was neatly pressed. Dark red lipstick, nails done to perfection, and soft curls finished it off nicely. The limo driver gave me a very long low whistle of approval. “Whoever you’re picking up, Miss, they’re a lucky lucky man!” The ride to airport felt incredibly long with all of the anticipation, and the limo driver’s eyes kept dipping into the rear view mirror for another look.
Right on time, I was dropped at Arrivals with instructions on how to call the driver back to us at the curb once my husband arrived. The butterflies and anxiety started in earnest then. It’d been 8 long months since we’d last seen eachother. A lot had happened for both of us since then. IEDs, deaths, ambushes, cross-country moves, new units, fresh training, and more…and none of it shared experiences. How would we both react? How would he feel? How would I feel? How did I feel now? Everything felt topsy turvy. The little black and white sign I’d made, reading “Welcome Home!” felt so small and inadequate in my hands. I felt like everyone was staring. The skirt felt like it’d shortened in length by a good 2 inches and I was certain my garter belt clips were showing. Desperate hands checked, and I was safe. The skirt was still long enough, even if it didn’t feel like it from all the eyes on me. Were people staring? Was it my imagination? Did I look ridiculous??
I paced and paced, and waited. The anxiety on my face must have been painfully obvious. Time was slow and I began to worry that maybe he’d missed his flight. That there was a delay I didn’t know about. A woman in an exacting business suit touched me on my arm, “You look just fine, honey. He’ll be here.” I could have hugged her, the loneliness inside me was so great and here I was, so close to seeing my husband again. If only he’d show up!
More anxious pacing, more stares, until, at last, the glass sliding doors opened, and there he was: oversized overstuffed pack, civvies, a heavy green duffel, and looking exhausted. Bags dropped to the floor, and I was scooped up and swung in a big arcing circle. “You look fucking amazing!” Exactly the words I’d hoped to hear. Everyone around us disappeared and all I could see was his wrung-out face, tanned and sunburnt nose, and hair a sandy mess flying in all directions. The mustache I’d seen in pictures now a distant memory, thank goodness.
I thought I could write this part by now, turns out I’ll need more wine than I have on hand to accomplish that…it’s a start at least.
pine sap & paper 