Of all the things to miss… (Rework of an earlier post)

Of all the things to miss…

“Are you dressed yet?” David yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“Not yet.” I know it seems like an easy thing to do. Pick out something to cover the body. I have plenty of clothes. My closet is overflowing with jean and slacks, sweaters and hoodies. I have drawers and drawers of t-shirts, some solid colors and some with stripes, some plain and some with slogans or funny sayings. However, nothing in this room tells you who I am.

“Well hurry up! I don’t want to miss our reservation!”

The Air Force has rules about what you wear for different occasions. You wore your blues to meetings and formal briefings. If it was a fancy affair, like a graduation or award ceremony, you wore your dress blues, which was your blue uniform with the addition of a blue, suit jacket. Not just any jacket but the one with all your ribbons. Ribbons, tiny multi-colored pieces of material glued to a metal backing, pinned to your jacket in a specified order established by importance, with little medal oak leafs representing multiple times earned.

There are ribbons that represent small achievements: one for staying in the Air Force a certain length of time, one for not getting in trouble during that time. There are ribbons that represent sacrifice: the ones you received for deploying to Saudi Arabia, Oman or other places you weren’t allowed to talk about. Then there are the ribbons of extraordinary accomplishments: revamping a training program so that new Airmen get qualified in their jobs quicker, a training program that would be picked up and used at Air Force bases around the world. Finding problems in the radar system of a jet while overseas, a problem that prevented the jet from doing its mission, a mission that gathered and passed on information to other aircraft and ground troops, information that protected the lives of fellow Airmen, Soldiers and Marines.

“How many out-fits are you going to try on mom?” my fourteen year old rolled her eyes as I came down stairs. This time I had black slacks and a short-sleeved teal shirt with a small ruffle along the neckline. It was the third time I had come down and asked her opinion on what I was wearing.

“Tomorrow is my first day of college. I want to make sure I look ok.”

“Mom, you’re going to be fine. Nobody will be looking at your clothes. They are all going at how old you are.”

            For everyday work, the Air Force mandated the wear of the battle dress uniform, lovingly (or lazily) called the BDU. It was a patchwork of ugly shades of olive green.  Even this uniform had significance. You wore this uniform every day for your 20 years. On the breast pockets are patches, one for the command the other patch represents your squadron. They are like prison tattoos or family crests. Your squadron is where you go every day to work. They are the people you deploy with, you party with, you sweat, freeze and stand on the flight line in the pouring rain with. They are as much a part of your family as anyone with matching DNA. The uniform shows that.

“What do you think of this skirt?” my mother asked holding up a white skirt. It would have come half way down my claves. It was lacy and ruffled; it was something I pictured on a woman living on a prairie back in the pioneer days.

        “I don’t know.” I replied. Everything in the women’s department in Kohl’s looked the same. “I kind of like this one.” I was holding up a plain black skirt.

        “Don’t you already have one just like it?”

        “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s just put them up and head home. I’m getting tired anyway. We’ll swing by KFC and get a bucket of chicken for dinner.”

When you are retiring from the Air Force, they send you to a Transition Assistance Program Class. One of the speakers is the owner of a local high-end clothing store. With the skills of one who comes from a long line of butlers he opens his case and sets up his display of fabric samples. There are different kinds of ties and fabrics in all different colors. He starts picking up the different samples, explaining how the colors work and how the different kinds of fabrics work. He waves his thin arms around, telling us the difference between business wear and business casual. He tilts his head down so he can point his blue eyes at the females in the class and very clearly states, “Slacks for a woman are never business dress. Not even business casual. Women must wear a skirt to be considered professionally dressed.”

I spent the first twenty years of my adult life in the Air Force, following the rules and regulations on dress and appearance. I looked forward to the day when I could wear what I wanted when I wanted. I longed to wear my hair in the current fad. Maybe dye it purple. The freedom to put on makeup that was too dark or startling was an intoxicating dream. I believed that when I retired I would revel in the independence of my wardrobe.

Yet nothing in a closet of civilian clothes can capture the unity of a military uniform. They are just pieces of cloth that keep you from being arrested when you walk out your front door. Even if your job has a required dress code, it does not create the unity that a military uniform does. Hangers full of skirts and jackets. None of them says anything of who I am and where I belong.

I miss the feeling of belonging to something big and important. I knew who I was and so did everyone else. Now I am just one of the crowd. The feeling of anonymity, of being lost in the crowd, is strange after all the years of knowing my place in the universe.

I didn’t know just how much I would miss the uniform, but I do.