Never Wear Black to a Bowling Alley (On Base, In England, On a Saturday Night)

Over the years, I have directly and indirectly given you tips and hints.  If my personal experiences can make things easier for you, then why not pass on that knowledge.  I'm a giver like that.   There was the time I demonstrated for y'all how you should most definitely NOT get a fish as well as the time I showed you how to survive a camping trip in a pop-up camper.  And let's not forget all the many blogs about how to survive a red-headed toddler/pre-schooler/well, Zoe, really.  Oh, and how to survive being lost in a corn maze- I still have nightmares about that one- as well as how NOT to argue with my husband because he will always trump you.  And perhaps the most important lesson I have shared with you all- NEVER, I repeat, NEVER get sucked into a tabata workout!

How's that for a load of links to read if you are bored?

So- back to the reason for this post.  My newest tip:  NEVER wear black to a bowling alley.

Perhaps I should elaborate.

A few weeks ago, Zoe was invited to a birthday party at the bowling alley on base.  It is getting all spring-y around here, so I made sure to remember that Zoe had to wear socks to go with the bowling shoes and thought nothing of my attire since I was not bowling.  I wore one of my favorite summer shirts- a black puffy blouse- and finally shed my boots for spring-appropriate shoes.

Delighted with the spring-like temperatures and the fact we had just begun spring break and still had a blissful eight days of vacation ahead of us, I pranced in the bowling alley in my warm-weather top and shoes.  The wind was a bit chilly, so I was wearing a light jacket.  I walked over to the lanes reserved for the party and the lights were off because it was a "cosmic bowling party".  This means they turn the lights off and turn on black lights.

Still oblivious to the impending disaster,  I sat down with some moms I knew and began to chat.  It got a little warm in there, so I removed my jacket.   I noticed with slight horror that every tiny piece of lint stuck to that shirt (that you cannot see in the regular light) was glowing and I looked like I had some radioactive case of dandruff.   I considered putting my jacket back on, but my personal level of comfort (i.e. NOT being hot) overrode my pride in my appearance.  So... I continued to proudly sport my glowing lint until a good while later, when I looked down at the lint again and the site of something caught my eye- and caused my heart to stop.

You see... in normal light, that black shirt is completely opaque, so I wore my favorite bra- a white one.  Unfortunately under a black light, a white bra shines through a black shirt like a beacon in the darkest night.  Not one person mentioned it and I would like to think it is because it wasn't that noticeable.  But I think it was more like people were being nice.

Or they were quietly taking photos for instagram and I am now being ridiculed on some website somewhere documenting when military spouses go wrong.

You know, like People of Walmart but with black lights.  It's a good thing we're leaving soon.

Breaking Up With England

There are those moments in life that make an impact on you.  They are frozen in your memory- vivid, like a snapshot in time.  One of those moments for me occurred in November of 2000.  That was when we left England, bound for our new assignment in New Jersey.  We flew straight out of Mildenhall and the memory I have is as the plane left the runway and began to rise over the farmland of East Anglia.  I gazed upon the patchwork quilt of fields and wondered if I would ever see it again.

Twelve years later, I was blessed with the opportunity to come back.  This time we had kids and were a bit older than the last.  We were ecstatic to return and show our children around the land that we held so dear and mentioned with such affection.  And so it was, on August 6, 2012, we landed back in England to embark on a three year journey with our children.  Would it be as wonderful as the country we left behind?  Memories tend to fade and the good replaces the bad.  Was it really as magical as we remembered?

It was so much more than that.

And so, England, as my time on your welcoming soil comes to an end, I must begin the process of breaking up with you.  Much like the lovers that are doomed to be parted- they hold their last moments together dear; they cherish every minute and try to bank every scent, every site, every gentle touch to last them for a lifetime.  In case they never see each other again.

My heart is breaking over and over with each realization of the people, the places, the events, the sites, the smells and the sounds I must leave behind.  I am walking a line between jubilantly experiencing every last thing and mourning the last time I will experience that particular event.

I have loved every moment of our time here and enjoyed every country we have manage to visit in Europe.  Each is beautiful in its own way.  But none has my heart like Britain.  England, (Northern)Ireland, Wales and Scotland.  Each one beautiful in its own way and each one feeling a little like home to some part of my soul that connects with it.  A part of my soul that perhaps I do not completely understand.  Maybe it is some distant ancestral memory coursing through my veins (the Sherman, the Croft, the McClusky).  Perhaps I am finally doing what they could not- coming "home".   Wether for famine or war, politics or religion or even outlawry, they left their homeland and were unable to return.  Unable to set their eyes on their motherland again.  Maybe it is that part of me that feels so content here.  But while it is my ancestral motherland, it is not MY homeland.  As much as I do not want to leave, I must.  I must return to my homeland and leave this beautiful place behind.

So it must be- the day looming in the very near future that I will finally leave.  I must break up with you and leave you behind.  But please know, England, that it isn't you.  It's me.  But it is a me that is so much better to have known and experienced you- not once but twice.  Me that is so much more complete to have lived within your borders and experienced your quirkiness, your self-deprecating humour and your hilarity.  Please know that as I leave, I am leaving a piece of me behind.  A small part of my heart and soul will always lie in England.  Lie amongst your green and pleasant land- in the waves of the sea crashing against the cliffs of Dover- in the poppies blowing in the fields of East Anglia- in the mountains of Snowdonia- blowing through the mountainside heather in the Scottish Highlands- wandering alone across the Moors- flowing through the sluices, rivers and canals across the Fens.

England- I hope we will meet again someday.  But until that time- I will hold thee dear and close to my heart.   Please keep the light on for me. When we meet again, I will want to just sit silently for awhile and bask in your glory.

And perhaps I will want a cuppa tea.