It took only two days for me to become one of the highest donation recipients for the event. It turns out, my old Marines and old friends alike thought the prospect of me sacrificing my self-respect for a good cause was worthy of chipping in a few bucks.
I felt pretty good about my fundraising totals, and was excited to see the rest of the team and what kinds of ridiculous outfits they would have on. I had chosen a fairly conservative slip that permitted me to wear my usual boxer-briefs and retain at least a shred of humility, but knowing my old rugby buddies from the north, I half expected to see some heavy-set men in thongs parading about for the sheer joke of it. I was utterly wrong.
My wife and I rode up to Vermont together, spending the two hours talking about how much she was looking forward to seeing me do such a silly thing and how great it would be to see the rest of the old crew making fools of themselves as well. When we arrived however, I learned that my natural assumption that everyone would be down to make a fool of themselves for the sake of the “mission” was more of a military mindset than it was a civilian one.
My lingerie team, it turned out, was not quite as large as I expected. In fact, I had only two teammates, and they were both women. The event had dozens, or possibly even hundreds, of people in attendance, many of whom came in creative or interesting costumes for sure, but I was the only adult man in attendance that have come in a pink nighty. I had driven two hours to wear women’s underwear in front of the people I went to high school with.
A decision had to be made. Was I a man of my word, that truly valued the team over personal embarrassment? Or was that just something Sergeant Hollings preached about to younger guys in safety briefs. The decision was an easy one.
The local fire department used an oversized circular saw to cut a hole through a solid foot of ice near the lake shore, then removed enough of it to open up an area of frigid Vermont water that was about the size of half a regulation swimming pool, extending all the way to the frozen solid sand of the lake shore. The participants were split into groups to allow people the space needed to enter the water, have a few fleeting seconds of panic, and escape to the heated tent nearby to fend off hypothermia. My small team and I unzipped our coats and dropped them near our bags before sheepishly walking together toward the starting line.
Thank God my teammates were women in lingerie, otherwise some of the crowd may have even been looking at me.
The old Alex that still resides comfortably inside my head, the guy people feared I’d lose in training or on deployments, panicked. My pale Irish complexion betrayed my embarrassment and kept my face a dark shade of red as we milled about, waiting our turn. Alone in my mind, I wondered if my older brother would see the pictures. I wondered if someone would tell my dad that his Marine son was our parading around in women’s underwear. I’m not suggesting that adult men don’t have the right to do so if they wish, but in my family, I feared it would be tough to explain when Thanksgiving came around.
Then it was our group’s turn to take the short jog into the icy waters. The announcer called our team name and the names of the other teams that were grouped with us through the intercom. The crowd that had gathered around the lake cheered as they did at the start of each relay, and for a split second, not a single one of us moved.
In that brief instant of inaction, the old Alex that was full of fear and self-doubt faded into the background and the Marine in me took hold. Those friends of friends were right, I hadn’t come back the same guy I was when I left. Instead of disappearing into the back and letting one of the other folks take that first step, instead of positioning myself in the middle of the crowd to hide my outfit and shame, I stuck my right arm up in the air, yelled like we’d been given the command to attack the hill, and took off running for the icy water. My teammates, who deserve the real credit for dragging me out there and selling me on lingerie as a theme, were immediately by my side and without so much as a single active thought, I found myself neck-deep in water so cold my lungs panicked and refused to suck in another breath.
I wasn’t in the water for long, but another Marine trait immediately reared its head as soon as my body went into cold-induced shock. I treaded my way to the back of the group and waited and watched as each member splashed a bit and then stumbled numbly for the shore. Once I was sure everyone was safely making it out, I joined them, internally certain that I needed to be the first one in and the last one out, even though, in truth, it really didn’t make a difference.
Serving in the military does change us; some more than others, but as the new generation of American patriots ship off for their respective boot camps, let me be clear: it doesn’t change who you are. You gain a better perspective of how unimportant your ego can be, you gain a better appreciation of what it means to give your word, and you learn that sometimes it’s better to value the team over your own concerns.
The service will change you. It’ll make you better. It’ll give you the strength to do things you never thought you could.
It turns out I just had to wear some women’s underwear in public to realize it.
COMMENTS