I suppose this is my debut so just a quick intro is called for. I’m a suburban mom of three, living a not so suburban life. Last year my neighbor chased a bear from my backyard… that’ll give you a clue as to why “suburbs” wouldn’t fit my current residence. My husband is active duty and has been for about seventy-nine years I think. That’s what his hairline suggests anyway. Okay, okay, it’s really been about 17 years. My foray into military life began long before this marriage though. Be warned fellow coastie families, I am the product of the military lifestyle. I blame much of my current affliction described below on my Navy brat childhood.
Enough about me. Onto the topic du jour around here, which is RLS… Restless Life Syndrome. I’m a chronic sufferer of this condition, and I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever recover. It’s really sort of disconcerting how I can be plopped into an exciting, fun location and still wake up every day wondering, “Where can I go next?” It’s not that I lack the ability to appreciate the places I am at, it seems to be more an issue of commitment. I can’t really commit to any one place because I am a shameless placehussy. Being a placehussy, I have been known to sneak in and out of the boudoirs of the best of them. Times Square? I did that. The Davy Crocket memorial (bet you didn’t known THAT even existed!), did that too. I also slept in a motel along route 66, rode the DC metro, screamed hysterically at the children to stay away from the edge of the Grand Canyon, sat at the end of the Navy Pier in Chicago, flirted with the Seattle Space Needle, smiled for the camera at the buoy on the tip of Key West and picked my own strawberries in Carolina. BTDT. All exciting. All good in their own way. None could sate me though. I know the shame of sneaking away quietly in the night from a Honolulu firework show, laden with guilt at the knowledge it just wasn’t enough. I needed more. More fireworks. More beaches. More, more, more. The real problem with being a placehussy, aside from the ridiculous amount of time spent planning the next great adventure, is the fact you can never be quite completely satisfied. Placehussies can never have enough.
So what exactly does a placehussy do when military retirement approaches? So far the only answer I have found is to egg my husband on to aim for 30 years instead. Maybe I’ll get it all out of my system by then, finally sow that last wild oat and settle down like a nice girl. Or maybe I’ll just turn into one of those wacky ole ladies in an RV hussying about America’s highways?