I’ve learned something about myself as I made my way past my 20s and made peace with the middle of my 30s. I may be older, *ahem* a little bigger, a touch wiser… I may have a slight better handle on my tongue and a stronger idea of diplomacy, but I am still who I am, and I can’t change her. I’m louder as the night goes on. I talk when I’m nervous. I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable. I rarely cry but when I do, it’s usually because *someone* left the country station on in the car. I’ve accepted myself for me. And what I seem to be, more and more, is tired. I’ve been married to a soldier, the kind of soldier who lives his trade instead of just doing it, for over 15 years. We’ve seen war start and we’ve seen the country call for the ‘end’, the way politicians can call it that when people are still being shot. We’ve been posted across the country, we’ve been to funerals for friends lost in combat and friends lost to their own demons. We’ve spent Christmas’ over sketchy video calls and we’ve completely forgotten anniversaries. We’ve loved, celebrated, cried, fought, screamed until our throats were raw and fallen asleep on the kitchen floor. This week we are rebuilding our fence. And when our older neighbor commented on Dh’s ‘youthful’ ability to pull out the fence posts himself (hey, those muscles need to be good for something other than looking hot in a t-shirt) I laughed because it’s…