I compulsively save fortunes from fortune cookies. Especially if it’s a good one, I will keep it for years, in a zipper pocket of my purse, taped to my computer, in the change bowl on my desk. I’m superstitious about fortunes because I have this idea that someday in the future, I’m going to get one that tells me what I’m supposed to do with my life.
I have career/school/job/religion/life ADD. Something about the status quo has never made me happy and has never felt right. Why have one career for the rest of your life, when you can try out thirty or forty? Last count, I had had thirty-eight jobs to date, yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an accomplishment.
It always sounds like a good idea to begin with: like joining the Air Force. When I joined the Air Force, it sounded like a great idea. At nineteen, I had already recognized my issues with long-term commitment.
Growing up I couldn't decide between being a spy, a writer, a teacher, a doctor or a model. So I tried all five. ((Well, I didn't TRY doctor, I followed a doctor around and got a job at a hospital. Nonetheless.)) At nineteen, my friends were settling into a course of study, second year into their majors, and excited about finally becoming everything they had dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was holding down my third job, one at a temp agency where I didn't have to go to the same place more than once. It was perfect for me, I have no idea why I quit.
Clearly the solution to my job-ADD was to lock myself into a six year contract with the government. So, I joined the AF Reserves ((just to be safe)) and excitedly took my ASVAP, acing it with flying colors. My recruiter told me I could have any job in the air force including, but not limited to: Jet Engine Mechanic, Linguistics, Intelligence, Psychology, Mind Control and Prison Warden.
He warned me that most prison wardens ended up in Guantanamo Bay, though, and “frankly, that’s not really a place you want to be.” I appreciated his honesty. And I chose “Medical Laboratory Technician.” Fancy name for “puts labels on poop and pee samples, tests blood, and tries not to get any contagious diseases.” I romanticized the idea of military service in my head – after all, my family was a military family!
My grandfathers had both served in the Army, my Uncle retired from the Army, my cousin was in the Air Force, and my brothers would soon join the Marines and the Navy. It was meant to be: and not only that, it would make me a hero. I imagined the rigors of boot camp and coming out of it a dirty, sweaty Service Woman, with my uniform rumpled, but clingy, and a strand of hair that had escaped my BDU cap hanging over my left eye giving me a sexy yet amazingly strong look. I also imagined my lips had grown poutier and fuller at boot camp, and my complexion was beautiful and radiant. Something like this:
Typically, when I take on a new project, I abandon everything in single minded pursuit… that is, until I grow bored. Which happens rather quickly, it seems. Knowing that I may indeed grow tired of this idea of military valor, I joined on a Monday and signed up for the first available date for basic training.
I boarded a plane and headed for San Antonio, TX, home of the illustrious Lackland Air Force Base, where I would spend the next six weeks of my life in misery. What I failed to remember when I signed up for the Air Force was that I had a very low heat tolerance, a very low tolerance for yelling of any kind, and, oh yeah, I hated all things physically exerting.
I didn't remember this tiny detail until I was sitting in the San Antonio airport waiting for the Lackland bus to pick up all the new recruits. I considered bolting, I must say. Instead, I sat steeling my nerves for the unknown. The unknown is somewhat tempting to me, so the draw was strong enough to keep me from puking when I climbed aboard the Air Force bus. It wasn't until the bus pulled away from the airport that I realized there was no turning back. Arriving on base in my blue jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes and my hair pulled back in a pony tail, I looked at my fellow recruits. My comrades at arms. My soon-to-be prison mates, sharing in the same torture I would endure.
Arriving at the squadron, we were greeted by a friendly sergeant who saw nothing good about our motley group and yelled at us to get our asses off the bus and line up. Did we know what “lines” were? Were we just stupid? We had to be the stupidest group he had ever seen. Then, they went through our bags. I had packed as instructed:
“What is your name?” the training instructor yelled at the young man.
“Jeff Peters.”
“Jeff PETERS? Jeff Peters, what? Jeff Peters, you address me as sir.”
“Sir, yes sir!” the young man said hopefully.
“Do you think you’re in the ARMY, Jeff Peters? We don’t say ‘sir, yes sir’ here! We just say 'sir.' Here is a correct response, Jeff Peters: ‘my name is Jeff Peters, Sir.’ Try that, Peters.”
“My name is Jeff Peters, sir.”
“Now, Jeff Peters, I think you’re lying to me. I think your name is Winnie the Pooh. You know why? Because you got a bag full of HONEY! Now what were you thinking bringing HONEY to Basic Training, Peters? Did you think this was the hundred acre wood? Do I LOOK like Christopher Robbin to you, Peters?”
“Uh, no, sir. I got that on my way here, sir—“
“Yeah, and did you think the UNITED STATES AIR FORCE basic training was going to be the kind of place where you could sit back and lick honey off your paws, Peters?”
“Uh – “
“Did you get a list of WHAT TO BRING, Peters?”
“Yes, uh, yes, I did… Sir.”
“And was HONEY on that list, Peters? Did it say ‘socks, jock strap, and HONEY, Peters?”
“No, Sir.”
“I didn’t think so.”
It went on like this for several hours. One unfortunate girl brought homemade cookies made by a well-meaning grandma. One girl brought a book (like we would have time to read!). A couple of guys brought magazines of the auto variety, and one VERY unfortunate boy brought a pair of relatively skimpy underwear. When they finally got through with us, they sent us upstairs to collapse in exhaustion until the next flight arrived and all the lights were turned on in the dorm while those girls got yelled at.
We tried to sleep, but it was much like sleeping in a subway tunnel during the five o’clock hour. Our Training Instructor (or TI) was Staff Sargent Hamilton, a terrifying man who stood about two inches shorter than me, but yelled like no other. He took particular offense to those of us girls who were taller than he. More than once, he reduced us to tears on the first day.
To be continued...
I have career/school/job/religion/life ADD. Something about the status quo has never made me happy and has never felt right. Why have one career for the rest of your life, when you can try out thirty or forty? Last count, I had had thirty-eight jobs to date, yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an accomplishment.
It always sounds like a good idea to begin with: like joining the Air Force. When I joined the Air Force, it sounded like a great idea. At nineteen, I had already recognized my issues with long-term commitment.
Growing up I couldn't decide between being a spy, a writer, a teacher, a doctor or a model. So I tried all five. ((Well, I didn't TRY doctor, I followed a doctor around and got a job at a hospital. Nonetheless.)) At nineteen, my friends were settling into a course of study, second year into their majors, and excited about finally becoming everything they had dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was holding down my third job, one at a temp agency where I didn't have to go to the same place more than once. It was perfect for me, I have no idea why I quit.
Clearly the solution to my job-ADD was to lock myself into a six year contract with the government. So, I joined the AF Reserves ((just to be safe)) and excitedly took my ASVAP, acing it with flying colors. My recruiter told me I could have any job in the air force including, but not limited to: Jet Engine Mechanic, Linguistics, Intelligence, Psychology, Mind Control and Prison Warden.
He warned me that most prison wardens ended up in Guantanamo Bay, though, and “frankly, that’s not really a place you want to be.” I appreciated his honesty. And I chose “Medical Laboratory Technician.” Fancy name for “puts labels on poop and pee samples, tests blood, and tries not to get any contagious diseases.” I romanticized the idea of military service in my head – after all, my family was a military family!
My grandfathers had both served in the Army, my Uncle retired from the Army, my cousin was in the Air Force, and my brothers would soon join the Marines and the Navy. It was meant to be: and not only that, it would make me a hero. I imagined the rigors of boot camp and coming out of it a dirty, sweaty Service Woman, with my uniform rumpled, but clingy, and a strand of hair that had escaped my BDU cap hanging over my left eye giving me a sexy yet amazingly strong look. I also imagined my lips had grown poutier and fuller at boot camp, and my complexion was beautiful and radiant. Something like this:
Typically, when I take on a new project, I abandon everything in single minded pursuit… that is, until I grow bored. Which happens rather quickly, it seems. Knowing that I may indeed grow tired of this idea of military valor, I joined on a Monday and signed up for the first available date for basic training.
I boarded a plane and headed for San Antonio, TX, home of the illustrious Lackland Air Force Base, where I would spend the next six weeks of my life in misery. What I failed to remember when I signed up for the Air Force was that I had a very low heat tolerance, a very low tolerance for yelling of any kind, and, oh yeah, I hated all things physically exerting.
I didn't remember this tiny detail until I was sitting in the San Antonio airport waiting for the Lackland bus to pick up all the new recruits. I considered bolting, I must say. Instead, I sat steeling my nerves for the unknown. The unknown is somewhat tempting to me, so the draw was strong enough to keep me from puking when I climbed aboard the Air Force bus. It wasn't until the bus pulled away from the airport that I realized there was no turning back. Arriving on base in my blue jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes and my hair pulled back in a pony tail, I looked at my fellow recruits. My comrades at arms. My soon-to-be prison mates, sharing in the same torture I would endure.
Arriving at the squadron, we were greeted by a friendly sergeant who saw nothing good about our motley group and yelled at us to get our asses off the bus and line up. Did we know what “lines” were? Were we just stupid? We had to be the stupidest group he had ever seen. Then, they went through our bags. I had packed as instructed:
- Laundry soap,
- ball-point pen (black or blue – I chose blue),
- shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush and toothbrush tray, toothpaste,
- notebook and paper,
- black shoe polish, shine brush, shine cloth,
- shower shoes,
- soap & soap tray,
- sanitary napkins/tampons,
- sports bras,
- hair bands, bobby pins,
- underwear,
- brush,
- nude panty hose,
- two towels,
- envelopes,
- cotton balls,
- spray starch,
- nail clippers,
- razors and shaving cream,
- white socks,
- watch,
- calling card,
- and glasses (apparently you weren't allowed to wear contacts, but I would test this theory).
“What is your name?” the training instructor yelled at the young man.
“Jeff Peters.”
“Jeff PETERS? Jeff Peters, what? Jeff Peters, you address me as sir.”
“Sir, yes sir!” the young man said hopefully.
“Do you think you’re in the ARMY, Jeff Peters? We don’t say ‘sir, yes sir’ here! We just say 'sir.' Here is a correct response, Jeff Peters: ‘my name is Jeff Peters, Sir.’ Try that, Peters.”
“My name is Jeff Peters, sir.”
“Now, Jeff Peters, I think you’re lying to me. I think your name is Winnie the Pooh. You know why? Because you got a bag full of HONEY! Now what were you thinking bringing HONEY to Basic Training, Peters? Did you think this was the hundred acre wood? Do I LOOK like Christopher Robbin to you, Peters?”
“Uh, no, sir. I got that on my way here, sir—“
“Yeah, and did you think the UNITED STATES AIR FORCE basic training was going to be the kind of place where you could sit back and lick honey off your paws, Peters?”
“Uh – “
“Did you get a list of WHAT TO BRING, Peters?”
“Yes, uh, yes, I did… Sir.”
“And was HONEY on that list, Peters? Did it say ‘socks, jock strap, and HONEY, Peters?”
“No, Sir.”
“I didn’t think so.”
It went on like this for several hours. One unfortunate girl brought homemade cookies made by a well-meaning grandma. One girl brought a book (like we would have time to read!). A couple of guys brought magazines of the auto variety, and one VERY unfortunate boy brought a pair of relatively skimpy underwear. When they finally got through with us, they sent us upstairs to collapse in exhaustion until the next flight arrived and all the lights were turned on in the dorm while those girls got yelled at.
We tried to sleep, but it was much like sleeping in a subway tunnel during the five o’clock hour. Our Training Instructor (or TI) was Staff Sargent Hamilton, a terrifying man who stood about two inches shorter than me, but yelled like no other. He took particular offense to those of us girls who were taller than he. More than once, he reduced us to tears on the first day.
To be continued...
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