Basically.

I don't like the military. I don't like guns and shooting and killing, and I feel like we should be able to settle our differences with words after all these years of civilization. I know that's totally unrealistic, but, hey, aim high, right?

When Bubba announced that he was joining the Army last spring, I was a little concerned. I was worried he might regret his decision when the order to go to Afghanistan came through. I was selfish and smart and didn't want anything to happen to him. But more than that, I wanted Bubba to be happy. So I decided that if he's happy joining the Army, then I'd support him. Not our troops per se, but Bubba's decision.

A couple of weeks ago he finished basic training and we got to go to Ft. Knox to watch him graduate. Ft. Knox freaks me out. You can feel the rules and the parameters and the protocol and the regimen everywhere you go. It was absolutely one of the most uncomfortable places I've ever been, on par with that one bazaar in Iran when I thought they were leading me to a dungeon to cut my head off.

It wasn't until after the graduation ceremony that I started to settle down. Not settle in, but settle down. It probably helped that I wandered into a crowd of 200+ of the best dressed male specimens I've ever seen.

Those uniforms are magical, even with berets.

Bubba and his buddies (we took a couple extra out since they're way more handsome in groups) were hilarious. They wanted to go to the bookstore and passed around Mack's computer paying bills and checking email and eating up technological freedom.

Apparently they'd been using their leisure time to sit on the floor, so this was like a trip to France to them.

We probably spent two hours at Barnes and Noble. They read magazines and made phone calls... making sure to stand still while talking. Apparently that's an Army mandate: no walking and talking. There's also one that says you can only do it missionary style. 

Bubba and I had been writing letters while he was in basic, and he'd said all he wanted to do was watch a movie and eat wings and pizza. That plan got scrapped since they were given pizza the night before, so instead we went to Ruby Tuesday after coffee and pastries so they could eat steak and chicken. And chili cheese fries. And something called a brookie that made them want to vomit but that they couldn't stop eating.

Everywhere we went they'd put their beret on when we got out of the car, take it off inside the shop, put it back on to go outside, take it back off in the car. On and off, on and off, on and off, all the time. They also opened the doors every time we went somewhere and had actual manners. Which made them even more handsome in their little outfits.

 

Maybe the military's not such a bad thing after all. Not because I approve of wars, but because I'm a huge fan of consideration of others.