metaphorically speaking

His boots are the color of sand.  worn in the creases from nimble movement made in places I'll never know and never really want to know.  the laces are long to snake around his ankles. ends tucked out of sight.  tightly wound.  old and familiar.  

I could so easily slip in my tiny feet, losing them in all of the dark space leftover.  I could rest my soles in the low grooves made by his.  soak up the stale desert sweat.  march around not to mock but to know.  to feel the rhythm in his step as though it were mine.  

He bought for me small lounging shoes, sporty and gray.  slight and suede.  holding one in the expanse of his hand, I recall the way he questioned its feasibility.  It lay perched, fragile in his palm.  a perfect size seven.

I would guess not but a fragment of his toe would settle inside. awkward terry walls tightening at the ball of foot.  he'd never try to fit them on. nor would he mimic my bohemian parade.  no reason for him to match my gait.  brief and strolling.  quick and deliberate.  running to halt to run again.    

He would huff, "they are your shoes.  walk."  and I would wear them both.  white laces bow tied, hidden within his jump boots.  

new shoes, old friends, and all the middle parts, too.

I don't have anything really eloquent to log tonight, just some catching up, I guess. I've been sick...with some delightful bug I was awarded for demanding kisses even when The Staff Sergeant was feeling under the weather. "I never get colds," I assured him, "only sinus infections!" Famous last words, my friends, famous last words.

It really hit me about 2 days ago and was swiftly accompanied by an indisguisable hacking cough that wore my throat raw and kept everyone awake. The peak of distress arrived last night when my boss told me to go home and the thermometer declared a low-grade fever. I don't do sick so well so I regressed, like all pitiful princesses do when germs plague their bodies, to a mental age of about 5 - the please-hold-me stage of life. Thankfully, today was my day off so I didn't need to report to anyone, anywhere and I rested and slowly moved through morning glory muffins with Republic of Tea, and tried to watch the Today show [but was thwarted by Bush's speech]. I ran some errands and started cleaning house, did some much needed laundry, and eventually met The Staff Sergeant for some quality shoe shopping [an interactive Christmas gift]. My new kicks are Asics, pink and gray ones at that. They're to hopefully make working out less painful on my feet, and less dreaded of an activity...and they are pink!

Also today, I bought my first pair of skinny jeans. I feel that they constrict my ankles, but I'm told I'll get used to it...

On a more meaningful note, I saw an old high school friend as she is in town to take care of an aunt who isn't well. We had coffee and time to catch up, and tomorrow another of my long-lost comrades from days gone by will be passing through on her way to see family. She's an army wife and we haven't seen each other since the wedding [2 years ago]. It mystifies and fascinates me to think back almost 10 years when both of these girls crossed my path, and to observe how wholly different we are from that freshman year in high school. It's good to know they're there, those bonds that survive.

With that, as my roommate urges the consumption of wine and the dryer's buzzer notes the end of another cycle, I'm finished.

Good night all.

a three-day recap.

Today I bid a joyful farewell to The Cooler, I mean the office. Around 3:30pm, I will be a former employee of [corporate co.], and the newest staffing addition to [upscale retail establishment]. I couldn't be happier! To celebrate, I went shoe shopping before showing up for the afternoon of key-punching in my little cave. The new job will keep me on my feet, so I predict that my 3 inch stilettos probably won't make the appropriate-work-attire cut. I acknowledge my masochistic tendencies and still, I'd rather not curse my aching feet at the end of each day. I bought two pairs of flats and plan to dedicate a few hours next week to the alteration of dress pants. They are all, as of now, long enough to accommodate heels [i.e., too long]. The new gig begins Wednesday. Not only will the hours be reasonable, but the compensation will rival my current wage earnings [hooray!]. I'm really excited for the change.

Word on the new job came Friday afternoon.

Friday evening I struggled for the first time with Uncle Sam. I continue to read that relationships with soldiers are additionally relationships with the Army. It seems to be a self-evident truth, so I helped The Roommate paint her room a gorgeous turquoise shade of robins-egg-blue. My bond with a paint brush is unlike any other, once I connect with the first stroke, be it on a wall or on a canvas, my mind drifts off to a place without concept of time or worry. I offered aid in order to lose my thoughts while awaiting word of return from The Staff Sergeant. At 10:30pm [after one full coat of paint including the cut-in of ceiling and baseboards] he was back from the sticks. I packed my tote, peeled as much paint from my skin as possible, and headed for his place.

Saturday I flexed my culinary muscles with a homemade production of French toast and mixed berries before heading back to Nashville. A commitment to volunteer beckoned my return. V, Future Californian, and I were delightfully recruited to work Wine on the River...and who doesn't love to play with wine-all the wine you could imagine? We hurried, signed in, and began a brief education before the event began. I drank and served and drank some more. It was fabulous! And following a wine-laced afternoon, The Staff Sergeant picked me up for a delicious dinner at Trace.

Sunday was as Sunday should be...calm and lazy. If everyday could be a Sunday spent with The Staff Sergeant, Heaven would quite nearly exist in earthly form.

...that brings us back to Monday. I dutifully sit, fingers and toes numb from the overworked A/C, ambiance set by fluorescent lights overhead and the echo of murmured phone calls and clicking keyboards [and a distant tune of what I can only imagine to be a kind of cubical karaoke?].

I'm counting down the minutes until this ends.

Idiot.

I need for someone to sit down and write The Idiots Guide to Not Being a Complete U.S. Army Dumb Ass. This my friends, is another language and culture all together!

E-what?

PF-something

Where is Dhi Qar?

...for that matter, where exactly is Iraq?

See what I mean? And it digresses from there. Maybe Miss Teen South Carolina and I can go get a latte and talk about...er...stumble over...uh...attempt to converse about The Iraq or possibly Everywhere Like Such As. She'd be in good company. My knowledge spans no further than the plastic boots of G.I. Joe and his action-hero jointed limbs. Even then, who am I kidding? I was a thoroughbred Barbie girl. No camo for this Princess.

I'm lost.

::sigh::

...and completely overwhelmed.

My adopted soldier, who we'll cast now as The Private, will perhaps be a test of informational endurance. As for The Staff Sergeant, well, I'm a bit smitten and also, he has good shoes. So, please someone remember to make that justification in my eulogy when the capacity of my brain overloads and I burst...

This week's top 5 reasons I might toss my cookies (and it's only Monday):

1. Whatever the eff-ing hell this travesty calls itself...

2. That CNN story about Seniors and oral sex that aired between unnerving footage of soldiers in Iraq...

3. (said unnerving footage courtesy of CNN, and the theoretical heart palpitations I credit to the intensity of their musical score)

4. My masochistic tendencies and the search capabilities of YouTube and Google: [base location], [military branch], [specific category] = the virtual deflowering of my mind and eyes

5. The prospect of another long weekend spent with one of the parental forces of evil...a predicted 3 days of psychological warfare hidden behind the smoke and mirrors of, "I know that you asked not to be put in the middle of this, but there's something you should know..."

Hey, aren't you...? Nah, couldn't be.

I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino lists this short metaphor in a recent blog posting:

"When you’re the liar, you are that guy we’ve all sat down to a friendly game of poker with, the overeager, smarmy one with the odd tells, the one who repeatedly claims he doesn’t understand the rules but seems to know his way around the table just fine. Not only is no one sure exactly who invited him, but he takes all the fun out of the game. And he’s an ass when he wins the pot, scooping up your cash with a sweaty snort while you give the knowing glance to your regular players. This is the guy from whom you hide your good beer in the farthest reaches of the fridge. The one you rant about after he’s cleaned you out. The one you promise will not be invited back.

I’m not playing that game anymore."

I swear I've met that guy before. I just...hmm...I can't pinpoint WHERE.

The question of honesty makes my nerves draw up inside my skin, like when you anticipate the piercing sting of a finger prick. It's hard to wager yourself after the burn of deceit, very hard indeed. It's hard not to assume that everyone's intentions are the same. We are a culture of "every man for himself," are we not? I just wonder if he's out there...he doesn't have to arrive on a majestic white horse, or come to my door with bouquets of flowers or compliments, or a twinkle in his eye - I'd be skeptical of the twinkle anyway. I just want him to be honest. Honest and absurdly in love with me.

...and maybe good shoes.

______________________________________________________
And also, Tuesday's snap-shot:

Yeah, I'm a bottle brunette.

Success!

The coffee date last night went unusually well (as compared to my current track record). The "out of work writer" actually turns out to be a very much employed Staff Sergeant (with good shoes). The whole professional warring thing shakes my nerves slightly, but we'll not look past the second date today. He leaves on Sunday for a couple weeks of work travel (state side), but dinner is scheduled for this weekend, before his military duties whisk him away.

Mr. Bush, I hate your shoes...among other things.

Not that I would have ever dated him anyway, but Crocks?! Seriously? Can we impeach him on grounds of bad shoes? There is no room for Crocks in the Presidential Branch of the United States Government. I could have told you how this would all pan out with one glance at the shoe choice.