The Naked Truth

I have always been a bit of a closet free-spirit. On the outside, I am exceedingly type A: I have schedules for each kiddo posted on the fridge, I graph my running splits, and even have a spreadsheet for each dollar that we spend. But there is ALSO this free-reigning–chaos-butterfly-effect side of my soul that forces me to question authority and jump at the triple-dog-dare challenge… in a nut-shell, do stupid shit. This week I was apparently ruled by the chaos-loving side of my brain.
Now, you’re probably wondering, how much trouble can one tiny army wife get into??? And unfortunately, the answer to that question is A LOT! I was born with a bit of a sassy mouth on me, and it tends to work at much higher velocity than my brain. I speak before I think, and I am way too emotional, competitive, and sarcastic. Draw a line in the sand, and not only am I going to want to cross it, but I will plot a wild leap of faith—regardless of the consequences-- across the transcribed void. And THAT is exactly how I ended up in my latest triple-dog dare nightmare…

Triple-dog-darer: “Hey Amy... Have you ever sent your husband naked photos to Iraq?”
Me: “Yep, all the time.”
Triple-dog-darer: “Liar. You don’t even like showering in the women’s locker room when there is a crowd around.”
Me: “Duh. I don’t want to make them jealous.”
Triple-dog-darer (while laughing uncontrollably): “Well ok then, Miss Liberated. If you’re so comfortable without your clothes, I dare you to strip in front of the camera .”
Me (while screaming ‘F#CK!” inside my head): “Fine. No problem. But if I am doing this, I am having them done right.” (as in a studio that has the skill level (and lack of ethics) to photoshop my head onto Angelina Jolie’s body).

Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t pose for any Hustler photos, and all the dirty bits were basically covered, but that didn’t change the fact that I was lying naked on a hardwood floor in a room full of strangers. A hair stylist, make-up artist, lighting assistant, and a woman who kept re-positioning my various body parts (it is harder than it looks to retain a sultry expression for minutes on end) continually stepped over and around me for two hours. Honestly, I really had no clue it took that many people to get one person photographed almost-naked. Let’s be honest, drunk MMS messages are so simple—especially for non-shy, slightly buzzed, females like myself. Everyone LOVES receiving those—even if the photos are grainy and dark.
Obviously, this situation was a little different. I was completely sober (ok, moment of confessions: I had ONE teensy-weensy mimosa), and this photo shoot was premeditated. I actually walked into a room full of strangers and stripped… completely ignoring the fact that I have housed three children at various times underneath my abs of steel. Now I know what you are thinking?? How far on the crazy ladder did Amy actually climb to willingly agree to be photographed naked? And more importantly why?
Let me address the second question first. Deployments are not just a twelve month separation, but rather a twelve month breakdown of communication. Conversations are clocked into twenty minute increments, and tend to rotate around the managerial aspects of a family: kids, money, and bills. No mention is ever made on emotional health, but rather focused on the tangible— and if every member of the family still has a pulse, then you should probably be giving yourself a high five. Furthermore, if every member of the family has a pulse AND isn’t lighting themselves on fire, robbing a bank, or mouthing off to their superiors, then you might as well nominate yourself for the military-parent-of-the-year. Family phone calls are, at best, maintained on a superficial level, and at the worst, become outright lies of omission. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I answered the question, “So Amy, how is everything going?” truthfully. The truth would be brutal, raw, and heartbreaking, and would serve more as a distraction then any type of panacea. What problems on the homefront could ever be solved over a three thousand mile separation and a crappy phone connection?
Personally, my husband has been deployed for eight months now, and is scheduled to come home for his fourteen day R&R in three weeks. All of those suppressed emotions that have been put in a box and shoved into the back of the closet are most likely going to come exploding out. No shelf—not even one from the all-powerful Container Store-- is strong enough to support all of those unspoken words. In three short weeks, my husband is going to walk into our home and look into my eyes for the first time in eight months, and I have absolutely no clue if he will even recognize a single shred of the pre-deployment Amy. I am changed. He has changed, and about the only common ground we have is the life we built together prior to the army ripping us apart. Sometimes when your life has been completely turned inside out, the only place you can start is back at the beginning—when a ‘bill’ was merely an annoying stalker ex-boyfriend and you shaved your legs daily. Sometimes, you need to step out of your comfort zone and climb a few rungs of that crazy ladder to remember what it was like to be kissed long and soft and slow.
Heck, sometimes, when an endless war wages to keep you apart, you just have to fight a little dirty.