Morning. Back on post.
My generic-looking Nikes are pounding pavement. Forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. Out of breath, plodding forward, muscles still sore from the previous day.
I have a bit of a gut from all the beer I've been drinking since being back. This is the most I've ever weighed, but at least its not the fattest I've been.
I keep running, around the airfield, feeling the need to get back in shape. Running. Swimming. Lots of cardio. Take my lazy ass to the gym, put on a little more weight.
I picture cases upon cases of Budweiser, laid to waste at my hands. Irish Car Bombs and tequila shots happily downed without a second thought. Gallons of Gatorade chasing hangovers like lethargic and disinterested guard dogs.
Vacation's over. Getting everything back in order now, making it all Army Strong-like. Trimming the fat off the vets. You know us, you can see us in movies like Stop-Loss. Digging foxholes in our underwear. Because we dug lots of foxholes in Iraq...
Funny you bring up Iraq though. It's almost as if...
I was never even there.