Flying Fruit

When the captain comes on to say "We are entering the combat area, we will be making a quick entry, so please be sure you seat belt and belongings are securely fastened, as we may experience negative G's," there's a reason they don't follow it with "now would be an excellent time to open a fruit cup." 

Word to the wise.

Just saying.

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“You should pack, like, your Victoria’s Secret underwear or something too.  You know, whatever helps you feel girly.”

Um, she did know we were about to go to Afghanistan, right?  Lacy thongs wasn’t exactly the response I was looking for when I asked if there were anything else she would recommend that wasn’t on the standard packing list.  To be honest, “feeling girly” wasn’t really on my packing list either.  Conditioned to be “one of the guys” in the vain hope of gaining professional legitimacy and avoiding the leering stares and insincere lunch invitations that come from men desperate for any female contact, I’d planned to keep my clothes baggy and my hair in a ponytail. No Victoria. No Secret.  But, then again, this woman had done the war zone thing several times before and this was only my first rodeo.  And, sure enough, only months later I would be gaping jealously at her blue jeans and unapologetically pink toenails, wondering why I’d felt like I needed to conform.  I’m not a man.  And daring to wear a color other than black, brown or gray (GASP!) doesn’t make me any less successful at my job.  So this time around I packed jeans. Two pairs.  And I packed mascara.  And I packed all of my Victoria’s Secret underwear (but mostly because I hate doing laundry).  But I’m also packing a new attitude.  So, let them leer, and let them fall all over themselves trying to get my attention, and let them make bets behind my back about which one can get me first, because it’s all in vain.

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