All My Exes Live in Texas

....Ok, so that's not true. I have no exes in Texas, and I am not sure I even know anyone who lives there. But it was catchy, wasn't it? I was pondering today how odd it is that I am not quite 30 years old and I have an ex-husband. And a new(er) husband. It just seems like a lot of husbands before 30. 'Till I really think about the scenario...My first husband's name was Randy. IS Randy...he's still alive and all. We met at the beach, which was an unlikely spot, considering he wasn't a big beach-fan and it was a complete fluke chance that he drove down to the lake that day. I, on the other hand, was a beach bunny. Heh. No, actually I was a beach bum. Beach bunnies are cute little tan girls in teeny weeny polka dot bikinis who giggle as they toss volleyballs over the net and flash their brilliant white smiles at the chiseled figures of male...uh, jackrabbits? Anyway, for me, bum is more appropriate. I wore jeans alot. I was moody. I was seventeen. Randy and I began dating at this tender-young age, and although I'd like to say the relationship "blossomed"...I don't think that's the right word. I think we were two people who didn't really feel certain about life on our own, so we stuck together in hopes to figure it out as a pair. He was going to join the Army, and I didn't really have plans. Sure, I wanted to go to school, but the idea of dorming with a bunch of freshman girls was nauseating to me, and the thought of staying at home with my mother was out of the question. I had to get outta town. So I thought. So I did. Because when you're that age, and you're out of high school, the world is at your fingertips. You know everything and you fear nothing. That was me. Footloose and fancy-free. Anyhow, I spent seven years being an Army wife. During that time, I went to college, and went to real estate school so that I could sell houses and pay for college. I did just that. I sold lots of houses, and made great money. I made some unforgettable and lifelong friends. I had a house built, right by the Intercoastal Waterway in Savannah, GA. It was really lovely. Marriage-wise, things weren't perfect, but I was convinced that once Randy got out of the military, we'd tighten up all those loose-ends and have this glorious family. Then 9/11's tragedy struck, and things weren't the same. Randy had to deploy, immediately, along with a band of brothers I had grown to love. They were my new family. I cooked for them a few times a week, and spent many a holiday with those guys. They were really good guys, even though they were often foul-mouthed and rough around the edges. I knew they would have done anything for me, and sometimes, they did. One was from up-north, and he entertained my fancy of ice-skating whenever the Martin Luther King arena iced over for the month of open skating. One was quite the intellect - I think he's a doctor today- and he'd have long conversations with me about school and future plans. One was like a little brother, always finding mischief, but always making me laugh. He said I was like his mom...which actually didn't bother me because I knew it made him feel more at home. That one owned the first motorcycle I ever rode... And one very special one was like a big brother to me. I loved him so very much. He made sure I was always safe and happy, and when my husband would have to be gone at a school or a field mission, he'd always call to check on me. He shared with me his hopes and dreams beyond the First Ranger Battalion. He had me help him shop for the outfit he was going to wear on a date. He took me with him to buy Christmas presents for his brand new niece, and then we shared dinner at an Italian restaurant, where he promptly finished off his own plate and most of mine. Did I mention he was a huge man? He was precisely the man that changed my marriage. On March 4, 2002, he was shot and killed during Operation Anaconda. My husband was with him. He saw the whole thing unfold, and helplessly tried to save this big brotherly guy. He tried and tried...but to no avail. After the battle ceased, he laid with Marc's body for several hours until rescue came. My husband came home a changed man. Marc came home in a casket. This was a big turning point. You can't save a marriage from the terrors that are born of such a tragedy, so it seems. Or maybe we weren't strong enough to begin with.
Yes, I thought things would be salvaged. I thought the nightmares would end. I thought our new house would be something to uplift us, something to be excited about. Then, together, I think we foolishly thought that a baby would help reconnect us. But it only drove us further apart. Of course we loved our son, together, but the stress of being apart all the time and raising a baby on my own more than 1000 miles from any family was simply too much. I sold the new house. I moved back "home." Looking back, I realize that this was always home. My home here, in Indiana. No, this house wasn't physically my home, but this area certainly was. The familiarity of the city, the comfort of people I've known forever, and the ease of communicating with people who didn't think it strange that I'm a Yankee was refreshing to me. So, I got a job, and decided to make a life for Randy to come "home" to. I really thought he would come home. And he did, for a brief spell. We even learned we were pregnant with a second son. Things were strained, but if we could just make it through the final grueling months of separation and Army life....but, since you already know how the story ends, you already know, we didn't make it.
Looking back, do I regret that time in my life? Goodness, no. It was absolutely what I needed to experience to become who I am today. I grew up so very much, I even became a bit of an old soul inside. I was blessed with my two terrific sons. I learned hardship, and I certainly learned true heartache. I struggled, and I picked myself back up. I maintained a household on my own, with no help from anyone. I learned how to control finances, and I learned how to go into debt. I learned how to assert myself and communicate effectively. I learned that nobody can make me feel like nobody without my permission. I learned that God is real and true, and that when everything else has gone wrong, sometimes you just have to get on your knees and ask Him to pick you back up.
So here I am, not quite 30, with an ex. And a new husband. Coincidentally, his name is Randy, too. Weird, huh? And he's totally different. He's in a different place in life, ready to devote himself to a family. He's just the person I needed to take the next step into the new phases of my life. I don't plan on having any more exes. But I want to make clear that I don't regret the choices I made. Nor do I regret the day that I chose to be a beach bum instead of a beach bunny...it somehow all worked out the way it was supposed to with or without my teeny bikini.