Prior to 9/11, my military career wound down to a slow, gradual stop. I decided not to "re-up" as it were. Didn't have the fire in my belly. Like Gaylord Perry, I felt like I'd maybe stuck around beyond my "sell by" date and it was time to hang up the cleats. Unlike Perry, I didn't notch 300 wins. I had decided to quit instead of retire. If I stuck around longer, I knew I'd feel compelled to hang around until I got "my 20" and I just didn't want to do that. Your superiors are often assholes in the Army, and the higher you climb in the ranks, the more likely it is that you become the asshole.
So, I got out. And then 9/11 happened. And I had a lot of mixed emotions. In some ways it was a sigh of relief and a wipe of my brow that I'd gotten out kind of at an opportune time. If I had waited another year or so, they wouldn't have let me leave.
I had a dream last night. I'm not making this up. This really was my dream. I'm in some military school. I know I haven't fulfilled all the requirements for graduation and I'm trying to decide whether I want to approach the cadre and tell them I'm done or whether I want to buckle down and finish this up even though I'm way behind and maybe impossibly behind. And I woke up this morning and realized this was the 20th anniversary of that terrible day. So maybe I still have some unresolved feelings about getting out when I did. Or maybe it was just coincidence I had that particular dream last night. I don't know.
This is a particularly solemn day for me for a number of reasons. Not just having to do with the terrorist attacks. But it's 9 a.m. and I just found out the second tower was hit, and now I know this wasn't an accident. #NeverForget