Anniversaries and Pussy Papers

So this past Sunday was my and Rachel’s first anniversary, as evidenced by one of the rare instances when I get more than 10 likes on a given Facebook or Instagram post. I’m not complaining; it’s my own doing. I genuinely enjoy being off the grid and not feeling the need to check my twitter/Facebook/Instagram/Snapchat feed every waking moment of the day. I guess I’ll return eventually, but what I do on a daily basis right now is solid. The fact that I actually…do stuff at all in my spare time now is solid. Well, Sunday wasn’t particularly solid. Needless to say, this wasn’t how I planned to spend our anniversary a year ago.

After the mayhem on Facebook subsided following the baby announcement (women, especially other mothers, go APESHIT when one of their fellow female humans are pregnant. Motherhood seems like a hilariously stressful fraternity to join), I ended up looking at old pictures and seeing how much we’ve grown together as a couple and getting nostalgic about a woman who I’ve only known for 30 months yet somehow managed to marry and knock up within that time.

I’m not bringing up Sunday as an excuse to talk about how great Rachel is (there’ll be plenty of time and opportunity to do that). I’m bringing up Sunday to talk about how much deployments suck. Don’t deploy if you have a wife, a remotely serious girlfriend, or even a really cool dog at home. I’m on a base that could double as a vacation resort in Central America with the ability to go off base to party and buy groceries, doing an easy job that puts me in absolutely no danger yet still polishes my skill set, and it still sucks. I’ve only been gone for three months, and I already feel like I’ve missed too much of our marriage. Sunday really drove home the fact that I can’t be in the military for any longer than my current enlistment. My ambivalence about being theoretically willing to die for a country that continues to find incredibly inhumane ways to justify killing people who look just like me aside, I just can’t miss any more fucking anniversaries. Anniversaries are for nice dinners, sex, looking back on memories together, sex, drinking wine (along with Rachel being mad that she’s preggo and can’t drink wine with me), hiking together, and more sex, not for whatever I did instead.

“Whatever I did instead” involved food on the grill, which is normally a good thing, except that it was shared with people I work with, but don’t necessarily like. I don’t have anything in common with these people.  I tried. I really did. I can only take so much fucking honky tonk music and debates about Mustangs and their insistence on drinking nothing except for Miller and Bud Light and how “rap was so much better in the 90s” when the only rap songs they know are Nuthin But a G Thang and Gin & Juice and “cops have a really hard job out here so it’s okay that he shot that black kid” inferences when we (not us per se, but the infantry guys on this base) combat people who are actually trying to kill us under a very strict guideline called the LOAC (Law of Armed Conflict) while being held accountable for actually breaking those laws before I’m at the end of my rope.

I’m sitting in on a conversation, and this guy starts talking about how he used to stash porno mags under his bed when he was a kid. Being from down south, he and his friends affectionately referred to them as Pussy Papers. Even if you take out the adolescent details of sticky pages, the best places to hide your stash and really hard rags, there’s just no way you can say “Pussy Papers” in a southern accent without laughing. It’s impossible. That story almost made up for an all around crummy day. Almost. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with some Pussy Papers of my own, since I can’t do what people are supposed to do on their anniversaries.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s