Rite of Passage

I awoke this morning thinking about my experience in the gas chamber. No, not that one. I'm far too young to be a holocaust survivor.



It was a rite of passage in the military. We all had to walk into the gas chamber in order to get through basic training. The gas was chlorobenzylidene malonitrile, a non-lethal gas used in military training, as well as for riot control by law enforcement.



We filed into the chamber in groups of five or so, with our gas masks on. We stood in front of the drill sergeant, who also wore a gas mask. The drill sergeant, however, got to keep his mask on. It was probably best to go first in this situation, as you didn't know what to expect and didn't have to stand there and watch someone else freak out when the mask came off.



I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest, awaiting that moment when my mask would come off. I dreaded it but knew that it was something I had to get through. We were instructed before we entered on what to expect. The drill sergeant would tell you to remove your mask and then ask your name and social security number. In those days, we didn't worry about identity theft. Besides, who would remember your information under such duress?



I watched with dread as soldier after soldier took off their mask and went into hysterics. One girl immediately ran outside before reciting her information and was told that she would have to walk through again.



When my turn came, I removed my mask and my senses were immediately assaulted by the most noxious fumes imaginable. I felt like I was dying. Any area of my body that held moisture burned as if I'd jumped into a lake of acid. I proceeded to recite my name and social security number, which came out as something akin to tormented gibberish. Thankfully the drill sergeant let me leave, satisfied that I'd done my duty. I ran out of that building faster than I'd ever run in my life and began my agonizing walk around the track to clear my mucous membranes.



Everyone walking the track was in various stages of coughing and crying, both of these processes being involuntary. The only thought in my mind at the time involved the sheer misery I was in.



As my sinuses began to clear, I became aware of new thoughts of how thankful I was to be breathing fresh air. The air that I'd always taken for granted was ridding my body of this noxious gas, restoring my sense of well-being. Dignity wasn't a concern; survival was the only thing that mattered. The track was full of female soldiers spitting the vile taste from our mouths, tears streaming down our faces, snot running from our noses. There is no glamour in becoming a soldier.



The lessons that I took from this experience were numerous and valuable. I learned that a sense of duty can pull you through the worse kind of hell and that the comaraderie you feel for those who travel through hell with you is invaluable. I learned to appreciate the many comforts that we take for granted as a nation and I came away with a deeper sense of empathy for those who lost their lives in a most undignified manner during the holocaust.

I realize that I was nowhere near death that day in the gas chamber. Still, I came away from the experience with a renewed appreciation for life. For a nineteen year old girl, a soldier's rite of passage also became one of womanhood. I carry those strengths to this day and they have made me the person I am.

Not a Handywoman

While being single has its ups and downs, I enjoy it most of the time. Having been married for nearly seven years, I can honestly say that I've had my fill of married life. I get to hold the remote control when I'm watching television. If I don't feel like cooking, I eat cereal for dinner. I don't have to tell anyone where I'm going or when I'll be back. Okay, that's not true. My mother has to know when I'll be away for long periods of time, as she's generally the one who feeds my pets and she worries that I've met some horrible end if she doesn't know where I am most of the time. Generally speaking, however, I am a free woman.

There are times when this independence is a little overrated, to say the least. As I write this, I have a toilet in one bathroom and a sink in the other that are out of commission. I also have a connection kit that needs to go from my water line to my new fridge, which will be delivered next Friday. The Lowe's salesman was adamant that I call a local handyman before anyone else to do this "simple task." What he doesn't understand is that I live in a small town where the local handymen are either untrustworthy or downright creepy.

So I had the bright idea that perhaps my ex-husband would want a side job, to earn some extra money in this crappy economy. He was always a good handyman in our marriage and I most certainly miss that.

He tells me that he will stop by on his way home from work. I start tidying up the house a bit, while I wait for him. When 4:30 rolls around, I decide to call him. I had told him I'd mess with the faucet handles a bit more and perhaps I misunderstood and was supposed to call and let him know that I'd failed miserably.

I grab my cell phone and see that there are two voicemails on there. Both are from him. In the first one, he tells me to call him. In the second one, he goes into a little more detail and I read between the lines. His wife has put her foot down. The word "inappropriate" comes up. Now ordinarily I'd agree that it might be a bit inappropriate to ask your ex to be your handyman when he is remarried but I just had dinner with both of them on Saturday. It was a birthday dinner for my sister-in-law, who is married to my brother and happens to be my ex-husband's sister. It also included my ex-in-laws and there was no awkwardness whatsoever, save the initial greetings when I hugged everyone but the new wife. Maybe if I had hugged her, I'd at least have my sink fixed now.

I had picked up a "Universal Fit Decorative Tank Lever" while in Lowe's and had every intention of putting that on myself, as I've done it before. I get everything ready for the job and get the tank off the back of the toilet. I open the package, take out the tank lever, and proceed to break the metal arm while trying to unscrew the locknut. It snaps off at the handle like a mere twig. While I pride myself on being fairly strong, I know I'm not that strong, for heaven's sake. I look on the back of the package and see "Made in Taiwan." Why hadn't I checked that before? I'm out $15 and still can't use my toilet.

Now I'm off to attempt to install a new smoke detector. Should I chance it? Well I see no other way. Did I mention that I'm extremely stubborn?

It will probably comfort those reading this to know that I have put a call in to the local plumber to at least handle the sink and fridge water line. I'm going to try the toilet lever again. This time, however, I'll check to see where it's made and be a little more gentle with unassembling it. Wish me luck....