The Chance Chatter of Chameleons

I pulled on his black and white flannel shirt this morning. The one I bought him when we did family pictures in December of 2015. That was seven years ago now. All six boys had coordinating flannels. The girls in their cream cardigans. That was at the tail end of his CO tour with the Bluetails. We had been back together for almost six years at that point, married and had added the last baby to our family just that past September. Ten kids total for us, eight I birthed, three together, lots of fights, lots of tears, lots of lonely nights, missed anniversaries, missed birthdays, missed life shit. Today I pulled on his flannel shirt and missed HIM, not the commander of a squadron, not the second in command of a ship, not the captain of the ship, the PERSON. I wear his flannel, not his rank.

I never wanted to marry a police officer, a fire fighter, an EMT, or a military member. I HATE change and unpredictable, unstable schedules. They make me anxious and sick to my stomach. Here I am, 12 years later married to an officer in the Navy. I love my husband; I don’t fit here. I mean I change my colors depending on the military event, the small talk, the ceremonies to be “that wife”, but I don’t fit.  “Hi, I’m Charlene” followed by “what’s your husbands call sign? What does he do?” I wonder how any of them would react if I responded with “every chick he can when he’s underway?”. I mean, he doesn’t but, what if I didn’t respond with callsign and rank? Oh, I know! Then we could talk on a social personal level. How novel would that be? I wear his flannel, not his rank.  

This life is weird, I have very few military friends because they either don’t want to talk and be friends with the bosses wife (which is the dumbest thing ever since I seem to be obligated by some sort of weird unspoken code to look after these spouses as the senior spouse) OR they are a senior spouse and because their kids are all grown and they don’t have careers/jobs I can’t coordinate schedules to socialize(because oh, yeah, I still have little kids, a career, a house, a dog and well life). Then there is the third military spouse type, the one I refer to as the step ford milspouse. This military spouse lives and dies by the spouse’s career. They are devastated when their husband doesn’t pick up rank. That’s the one who is sitting next to you in all of her perfection at a ceremony and when you ask her what she has been up to she tells you she has been doing volunteer work at a nonprofit. Sounds impressive huh. Don’t we all want that for our resume? This is the military wife that EVERYONE knows and loves, is involved in EVERYTHING. She looks perfect, she acts perfect, she doesn’t say embarrassing things to the admiral (I may have done that). Let me clue you in; nonprofit volunteer work translated is “works at the MWR gift shop for free”. Now that is cool, no shame in that, but why not say it if you aren’t ashamed of what you are doing? Why pretend? Oh, yeah you wear the rank, not the flannel.

I’m NOT a good military spouse, I never will be. I don’t want to be. This doesn’t mean I am not proud of what our military members do, I am. I am proud of my husband’s success, I am proud of what he has accomplished, but that is his career, not mine. I’m not a good military spouse because I often avoid telling people what he does and avoid disclosing his rank, I have learned people won’t talk to you if they know and are affiliated with the military.  I don’t get involved in military spouse groups, I don’t have anything in common with most of them, and the ones I do, if we become friends, they move away. Every two to four years your orders change, you move, what is the point in putting the energy into these friendships. I also become mentally exhausted listening to the struggles they are having because of detachment, workups, deployments. We ALL freaking struggle. This life is lunacy. I don’t want the reminders that for days, weeks, months on end I will need to not only hold my shit together but that of everyone in the house. So, I wear his flannel, not his rank.

This marriage, this relationship, this “thing” we have, is often not a priority to either of us as we try to find our way through the absences. Through the pursuit of his career and mine.  One thing I think we both know, is I will wear his flannel, not his rank and it will be hanging in the closet when he makes his way back.