Sunday afternoon is drifting into evening, I have a glass of red wine in hand, and I miss my husband. (I wonder how many other military wives out there could start out with that precise sentence at this very moment. I can’t be the only one relaxing into the day’s end with a pleasant vino.) He’s been away for a couple weeks flying day and night to get ready to take the beast that is the C-2A Greyhound to the Boat — and yes, I’m far too immersed in the world of tailhook aviation to refer to an aircraft carrier as anything other than “the Boat,” make the SWOs wince though the term might. Actually, from what I’ve seen, most Nasal Radiators will cheerfully admit that irritating SWOs is a wonderful reason to say “Boat” instead of “ship.”
Uh. Where was I? That’s one pitfall of mixing blogging with alcohol: my merry path through a given paragraph is far more likely to involve detours and sidetracks. Bear with me and I’ll eventually figure out where I was going. Or not. Isn’t the journey supposed to be the important thing, anyway?
So my husband is getting ready for carrier qualification, which means that we can almost make out the light at the end of the FRS tunnel. If all goes as planned, we should soon find out where we will be stationed for my husband’s first sea tour. The wait is agonizing. We are both ready to be done with life in limbo and learn what it’s like to have some semblance of geographical stability for a predetermined (or at least a lot more concrete than anyplace we’ve been previously) period of time. At this point, I am trying to tell myself that regardless of whether we get our top location choice, knowing that we have three years anywhere is an amazing prospect.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m quietly freaking out over the possibility that we might have to launch into full-blown PCS mode before the end of the month, this time with a house to prepare for rental and feline overlords to transport across the country (or into another country) rather than simply a lease to dissolve and ourselves to get from Point A to Point B.
I know I would grow to enjoy either of the not-staying-here possibilities, but damn, do I ever hate the uprooting/moving/household-reestablishing process and all its associated chaos.
The worst part about right now is that we could either be mere weeks away from a move or we could be three years away from even the possibility. I sure wish I knew which it was, because I might be borrowing a whole lot of trouble I don’t really need. Luckily, I am told that sipping a glass of wine is an excellent way to focus on the moment instead of getting worked up over things about which one cannot do a thing except wait.