Being married to a military man is like extreme sports for relationships. Between the unpredictable schedule, lack of control over our own lives and the crazy lifestyle a family is forced to accept, military living is for the brave. I say this, but in the same breath, I have to admit that before committing to the insanity, I was warned. So I must be brave... Or seriously stupid.
Just a few weeks after meeting Rob, it was their battalion's Christmas party. It was my first opportunity to witness him drinking- when I wasn't. And people? Drunken soldiers are annoying as hell. My job was to pick up the intoxicated man, detour to his home and pick up his uniform, spend the night at my condo and then drive him to work in the morning where he's leaving his truck.
Easier said than done people.
My phone rings, "Heeeyyyyy baby, I'm ready for PICK UP!"
"Okay hun, I'll head out right now."
His voice is completely slurred, "Weelll hurry baby, I miss you."
Sigh. This is going to be a long night.
Surprisingly, I'm able to remove him from the group without too much of an issue and we both get into my car to head over to his place.
Snap, Crackle, Pop.
There is a serious crunching sound and it isn't Rice Crispies. I ask Rob to lean forward and beneath his huge frame? Are my frames. Broken in pieces and bent beyond recognition. My Dolce & Gabbana frames, which needless to say, cost a fortune.
We get to his house and his roommate/cousin is home. Which causes Rob to be seriously distracted. There are bright colors and fun, shiny lights and Rob takes over an hour to get his stuff together, with me constantly trying to redirect him from the chaos. It is ridiculous.
We FINALLY get into my car and head towards my place, when Rob announces that he is famished. But, living alone and eating out all of the time with work? I'm pretty sure I have some gatorade and cereal at home. Maybe some peanut butter. That is it. So we drive to this local gourmet market that sells amazing produce and already prepared food. I tell my drunken, incoherent boyfriend to stay in the car while I pick up a few things.
Walking into the store, I hear a car door slam and look back to see my boyfriend clumsily maneuvering out of the car stumbling towards me.
"I told you to stay in the car."
"I know, but I'm hungry."
"I know- I'm picking us up some food."
"Cool, I'll help."
More sighing here.
We're walking down the isles of fanciness and I'm putting things into the cart that we're going to purchase. Rob, he's strayed from me and is in the process of opening a bag of chips to help himself to a sample of gourmet dip.
"If you want these, put them in the cart and we will BUY them. We do not need to have a super market picnic, we can be home in ten minutes."
"What are you talking about? I can eat these and walk with you at the same time. And a super market picnic? That. Would. Be. Awesome."
As he says this, he reaches for a glass jar of the dip he's been eyeing and proceeds to knock over a dozen bottles on the shelf with a sweep of his arm.
"No shit, shit. Go wait in the car, I'll clean this up."
"But what about our picnic?" he asks as he proceeds to open the jar of dip and put his chip inside.
I reorganize and while walking to the register, the cart gets filled higher and higher with random crap that, "I've never even SEEN this before, we HAVE to try it."
I'm not feeling in sync with his need to try specialty Kraft Dinner that's $20 a box or fresh, organic pasta that's $15 for a tiny little bag. He's way enthusiastic over it all and I am just exasperated that it's taking an hour to get to the front of the store. As we reach the checkout, Rob attempts to hold the dip with his forearm against his body, the bag of chips in that hand, while digging his wallet out of his back pocket. His move? Not entirely successful as he drops the bag of chips, which spills everywhere, and proceeds to crunch the living hell out of them in an atempt to pick them up. And eat them as he does.
The crunching sound? Not entirely different from the sound of my breaking glasses.
And of the destruction of my calm, predictable life that was so lacking in the spontaneous upheaval for any ridiculous reason.
One additional note here. When we got back to my place? He realized that the following day was devoted to physical training and he actually didn't need his uniform after all. What he did need? His sweats and running shoes that we had to return for.
Next time I complain about his disorganization, just remind me that I did know what I was getting into.
A marriage of Snap, Crackle, Pop.
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