It amazes me how the perfect pair of jeans can change your entire outlook on life. This morning I was ready to sever every relationship I have and change careers. After a stop at a Banana Republic, every thing might be okay. Sure, my boyfriend is half way around the world with no phone in sight, and I just removed the bandages of my third breast biopsy (only to find what I deem a deformity) but he’ll be back and I can get fake boobs. Ah, the 21st century. Where war has darkened many of my days but the comforts of instant gratification have shown a streak of brightness through them. I’ve brought the war to my doorstep though, so I have no one to blame but myself. But generations will agree that those uniforms are hard to turn down, and what little girl doesn’t want to end up at the other end of the aisle looking at an honest-to-god hero? He’ll say “it’s just my job...” But that’s why he gets the title. The ones that pine for it are usually the most undeserving. Maybe he’s never run into a burning building or single-handedly took out a known terrorist, but he’s done his part, quietly, with no expectations.
Attaching myself to deploying military personnel is my way of being an emotional cutter, without the blood and awkward excuses. This isn’t my first go-round with a uniform but I’ve got it on pretty good authority that it is my last. Most likely because this time its not the uniform. I mean, the whole Top Gun flight suit is a plus, but if it had never been there he would still be my soul mate. The person behind it is who they say they are, with few apologies and allows me to be whatever I want. The day that I am at my best and ready to conquer the world, he’s there not to steal my thunder but to lend a hand. And on my worst days, when I want to run away and start a whole new life, he won’t let me leave him. He truly is my best friend. And so is Banana Republic, apparently.
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