This is How Old I Am

How do I know I am old? It's not that I saw an episode of 30 Rock where Jenna plays a woman who is dying a natural death of "old age" at 41. It's not my crows feet. Its not the militantly gray uprising on the sides of my head ("You can color us, but you cannot keep us down. We will rise again! Viva la revolucion!"). It's not even the random aches and pains.

It's who I call "kid."

Anyone who has been around the military knows it skews young. Sometimes bravery is just a byproduct of an underdeveloped frontal lobe, no understanding of consequence yet, no real understanding of mortality. (That's who you want enmasse, led by the experienced, those whose bravery is based on reliance of knowledge and practice.)

When we were flying out of Pensacola a young woman showed up, fresh out of Navy bootcamp, going to her first assignment. She looked like she had just come from her mother's womb, had a pair of hideous eyeglasses slapped on her, a uniform that looked like it was wearing her, a giant seabag on her back (Eric had to help her. She almost fell over trying to right it) and a look of pure new-to-the-world confusion on her face.

Yeah, we'd all agree, she's a kid.

Sometimes I see Marines, all corn-fed and "yes ma'am" and gung ho - faces that barely need a shave. And I think there is something beautiful and noble that just makes me want to hug them and ask how their Mom's are doing. And I think of how Eric's Mom was younger than I am now when she dropped her first born off at a bus station to be taken to Parris Island to become one of those young Marines. And I want to hug her, that Mom standing at the station watching the bus roll away.

Yes, we'd all agree they are kids.

But Eric mentioned that there is a going-away dinner for a guy at work. I say, "The blonde kid with the smile? (this kid is a poster of wholesomeness, lovely and smart and polite). Then I look at the invitation. He is a Staff Seargant!

But he's just a "kid" to me.

And that is how old I am.