While home in Houston last weekend, Mom mentioned that they had been doing some cleaning out of closets. And Dad quickly added that meant I needed to do my part, and either take the cadet uniforms currently sucking up half the space in the closet in my old room, or face the possibility of some lucky northwest Houston kiddo being a flying monkey from the Wizard of Oz next Halloween.
I guess I'm the sentimental type, because as of right this moment, those uniforms are now sucking up half the space in our guest room closet back here at home in Arkansas. At least, until we get them put away in our attic storage. Obviously for the purpose of allowing our own kiddos to dress up as flying monkeys from the land of Oz on some future Halloween.
|This may, or may not, be hung IAW BAG|
|There's even a Short O and a Long O under there somewhere...|
It was fun to reminisce over the uniforms and all of the associated memories from years past. Smelly wool; itchy starched white collars; men's uniforms nominally tailored for a woman's body so you have no chance of looking remotely feminine. But you could look STRAC, as they sometimes say in the Army. Ahhhhh, the memories. Good times.
I guess it was all those warm and fuzzy memories in the back of my mind that manifested in this sudden realization as I stood in front of the full length mirror in the women's bathroom at work today: I still check my gig line. And I still give myself dress offs.
Old habits die hard, I guess. I'm going to go start The Corps now. Pop off, you.