My looks... my image... I guess that's the only thing I can control. God knows I haven't been able to control the people in my family. And today just proved that I can't control my boyfriend. Yes, I admit I have control issues.
The New York girl has her hair in such a tight ponytail her eyes look like they're being pinned back. And she actually bought black military steel-toed boots for this trip. The closest thing I have to that are my cherry red high-tops.
She is still waiting patiently for an answer. I should tell her the truth. But I don't, because little white lies are in that gray area of life I live in. Even if the military doesn't have any gray areas, I still do.
I tell a little white lie. "I want to look good to impress Nathan."
"The blond guy who played the guitar on the bus ride to the base?"
I point excitedly at my nose, as if I'm playing charades. "That's the one!"
"But rumors are going around that you're dating that Israeli commando guy who was your team leader today."
I go back to straightening my hair. "We dated a little, but it was casual."
Now that's not a little white lie. That's a big, honkin' lie. My relationship with Avi isn't casual at all!
I used to imagine our wedding. We'd get married on the moshav our families live on in the Golan Heights (I'd make sure it was far from the farm animals, so the poop stench wouldn't drive guests away). I'd wear a white, flowing wedding gown and Avi would be in a casual, light-colored suit. We wouldn't be able to take our eyes off each other as the rabbi performed the ceremony, and I'd circle him seven times in the traditional Jewish way. Our love would last forever and ever; we'd share our deepest darkest thoughts, and nothing could break the bond between us.
Yes, it's totally corny. But that's my fantasy.
I even had our kids' names picked out. We'd have four kids and none would be a mistake like I was. We'd have two boys and two girls, of course--remember, this is still my fantasy--and they would be named Micha (after Avi s brother who died, because Jewish people don't name their kids after living people, only dead people, which is weird to me, but whatever), Golan (where Avi was born), Maya (which means "water" and that's something you can't live without), and Abigail (which means "leader of joy"; I didn't grow up with joy and want our children to grow up with it).
Of course, now, my fantasy is totally ruined.
As I'm doing my hair, a bee starts buzzing in my ear and I seriously almost burn myself with my flat iron.
"Go away!" I tell the bee, as if it speaks English and can understand me. It won't leave me and my hair alone. It's as if the nasty little buzzer wants to build a nest in my hair.
No buzzing insect is getting near my hair if I have anything to say about it. "Go away!" I tell it again, swatting at it with my flat iron, hoping to scare it away. No such luck. I'm not thinking, just relying on a self-protective instinct, and I clamp the hot ceramic plates together when the bee gets too close. Eww! I've trapped the bee inside my flat iron.
The good news: the bee will never bother me again. The little buzzer, shall we say, is toast.
The very bad news: I have hot bee guts stuck on my hot flat-iron plates. Yuck! It even smells like burnt bee. I unplug the flat iron so the plates will cool off.
Tori scrunches her face up after seeing the corpse stuck to my flat-iron plates. "That's not very green of you, Amy."
"Umm...for your information, being green means helping the environment." According to my "green" standards, I just saved the other animals from getting stung, thus helping the environment.
"Bees are part of the environment, Amy," Tori says with a snotty attitude. "These are just worker bees anyway. Worker bees don't sting."
They don't? I thought all bees sting. But Tori sounds really convincing, as if she's a bee expert, like she knows for a fact that these bees are harmless. I feel stupid that I don't know that little fact. I look at my flat iron again, totally grossed out, knowing that I'll have to scrape the bee guts off the thing once it cools off.
And I'm still stuck with my half-curly/half-straight hair.
If anything goes right on this trip, it'll be a miracle. I'm praying for it, because if miracles are going to happen I'd think God would want to start in the Holy Land. Right?
Ronit walks in the room for her inspection and I gather up my stuffand head to my bunk. After shoving everything into my suitcase, and placing the hot flat iron in between the towels in my cubby, I stand in front of my bunk at attention like everyone else.
Ronit, with her hands behind her back, walks up to each bed, nodding or shaking her head. She gives little comments to each of us on how we can improve. She even orders one of the girls to re-make her bed. Afterward, when she has nodded to all the beds (which I guess is the equivalent of giving it her kosher blessing), we head to the courtyard to once again get in formation.
"Amy, step out of formation. It's your turn to guard the bittan." She points to a gray metal folding chair in front of our barracks.
I step out of formation. The hot sun beats down on the chair, the one I'm supposed to sit on to guard our valuables. Seriously, who'd be dumb enough to steal stuff on an army base?
I swear there's no shade in this place so we're at the mercy of the blistering sun. I'm so hot that if I had SPF 50 on I'd be tempted to put on my bikini and lay out. How do the Israeli soldiers deal with living here in this heat, forced to wear long sleeves and long pants?