Things I No Longer Have the Patience to Pretend Are Fine

For a long time, "fine" was my default setting. The barracks had no hot water? Fine. The flight got pushed six hours? Fine. The movers lost the box with the good knives and somehow delivered a stranger's lamp? Fine. Totally fine. We adapt, we overcome, we say "roger" and keep moving.

Then, somewhere in midlife, a switch flipped. I don't know exactly when it happened. Possibly the day I found my reading glasses on top of my head after spending ten minutes looking for them. But I've retired from pretending, and frankly, it's been wonderful.

So here is my list. I'm sure you have your own.

Around the house

Fitted sheets. I have folded flags with precision. I have made a bed you could bounce a quarter off. I cannot fold a fitted sheet, and I've stopped trying. It goes in the closet as a ball. The closet has made its peace with this.

The PCS boxes in the garage. There are three of them, still taped, from my last move. I don't know what's in them. I've decided that if I haven't needed it by now, the boxes are less "storage" and more "time capsule." I will not be pretending I'm going to unpack them this weekend.

Throw pillows that cannot be leaned on. If I'm not allowed to put my head on it, it's not a pillow. It's decor with a superiority complex.

Recipes that say "ready in 20 minutes." They are lying. Chopping alone is 20 minutes. Finding the paprika is another ten.

Out in the world

Restaurants so dark I need my phone flashlight to read the menu. I'm told it's "ambiance." I'm told a lot of things.

I have stood in enough lines for one lifetime.

Small print, generally. On medicine bottles, on contracts, on the back of shampoo. Whoever is shrinking fonts every year, I see you, and I would like to speak to your supervisor.

Standing in line for something I didn't need. I have stood in enough lines for one lifetime. In-processing, out-processing, the commissary on payday, the shot line. If there's a line out the door for a trendy brunch spot, I'll be at the diner down the street with no wait and better coffee.

Being called "young lady" by a man who is clearly younger than me. Sir, I have a mortgage and a bad knee. Let's not.

Mandatory fun. I did enough organized morale events with a sign-up sheet. If a party requires a theme, a costume, and a spreadsheet, I'll send a nice card.

Among people

Conversations that are really monologues. If I ask how your weekend was and 25 minutes later we're still on your fantasy football league, I'm going to quietly excuse myself to "check on something." The something is my will to live.

People who say "you don't look like a veteran." I'm genuinely curious what they think we look like. Taller? Holding a flag? Permanently in a group photo?

Apologizing for taking up space. On airplanes, in meetings, in conversations. I spent years making myself efficient and compact. I would now like the armrest, thank you.

Pretending I'm not tired. Some days I'm tired. That's not a character flaw. It's what happens to a person who has done a lot of things.

Saying yes when I mean no. This one took the longest. It turns out "no" is a complete sentence, and it does not require a supporting memo.

What's still worth the effort

I'm not entirely unimpressed with everything. I'll still get up early for a good sunrise. I'll still drive four hours to see an old friend from my unit. I'll still stand up a little straighter when the anthem plays, even at a minor league ballgame where the speaker cuts out halfway through.

But the rest of it? The pillows, the tiny fonts, the brunch lines? Not fine. And I've made my peace with saying so.