I stumbled upon Letters to You, the blog of a 20-year-old Pennsylvanian and college student. She’s a war widow. When I first saw the blog mentioned in my Facebook feed, I shied away from it and pretended it wasn’t there. I had already read one blog, written by a young woman whose husband never met their daughter. I didn’t want to think that there were more stories similar to hers. But I read it, because these women do exist, because we complain about not wanting to see the effects of war (the list of the fallen, which I started publishing last semester, was not continued this semester because people thought it was too morbid — including a reservist), but also complained that the bodies arriving at Dover should be broadcast to the nation.
I can’t imagine life without Alan. We haven’t even known each other two years, but our lives revolve around each other. I haven’t started looking into graduate school yet, because I want to find something close to wherever the Army sends him (even if Columbia University has an amazing j-school, and George Washington and American universities — two of my top choices for undergrad — have j-schools). I’ve come to realize that when you truly love someone, your goals shift. They’re no longer what you want to accomplish alone, but what you want to accomplish together. So, if I don’t have a doctorate in MidEast Studies and a stint as a war correspondent under my belt before running for senate, and instead spend my days freelancing from a home office? That’s absolutely fine. And I don’t want to imagine my life any differently.
On a completely unrelated and far more lighthearted note, because now I’m very mopey, one of my flatmates asked me to go with her to put air in one of her tires, as it was a bit flat (which is why I’m now writing about this, instead of adding another paragraph to the above story). Neither of us had ever put air in tires before — in fact, a warning light flashed on my dashboard for the first two days of class this semester before suddenly turning off, and I never put air in any of the tires because I didn’t know how. Fortunately, someone was in line in front of us (who knew air was a hot commodity?), so we were able to observe the process.
My roommate said that the recommended tire pressure was on her door, and read something to the effect of 150/60. I had no idea what that meant or how I was supposed to fill a tire to 150/60, but I grabbed the hose and we started filling the tire. First of all, the hose doesn’t screw on, so we had to hold it there very tightly (you try doing that with no gloves in “feels like” 6F weather with 44 mph wind). Second of all, we had no idea what caused the silver gauge to pop out of its little case, but we noticed that the guy in front of us stopped when it popped out. Third of all, apparently 150/60 is not a tire pressure. It’s a tire width. Or something. I actually have no idea what I’m talking about. At any rate, we started worrying that we were inflating the tire too much, and what if it exploded? I told her we’d probably die, and that would not be fun. Fortunately, the little thing finally popped out and we noticed that it had numbers on it (and the number was 30-something!). And thus ended our adventure.