Somebody actually had the nerve recently to say that women tend to be attracted to men in Navy uniforms for really stupid reasons, while I didn’t want to admit it, he was probably right.
Face it, ladies. Our beloved sailors might be members of Mensa or have lineage connecting them to the White House, but the fact that they look fantastic in Navy blue still carried one heck of a lot of weight.
Deep down, most of us are as enchanted with a man in uniform as any other red-blooded American female who has ever fallen victim to the little known proposition that all eligible men are not created equal. We’re talking the whole nine yards here: The coats, the pants, the hats, the haircuts.
Therefore (and a lot of us will admit this rather sheepishly now), in order to get close to these devastatingly-dashing, gallantly-gorgeous Navy Manly Men, we probably did commit some seriously heinous crimes of passion. For instance, shamelessly leering with the subtle reserve of great white sharks circling prey just to get our hands on these “best of the best” dressers who never fail to resemble at least twelve pages out of GQ whenever they’re wearing those sea-going work clothes of good old Uncle Sam.
Then, what did we do?
We sailed off into that perfectly-hued matrimonial sunset. Just us, them, and all those precious uniforms.
Now, sure: Some guys have about as much interest in their uniforms as they do quantum physics. If you’re married to one, consider yourself to be a very lucky lady.
The rest of us have had to somehow eke out a normal existence while contending with garment-sized, expertly tailored, perfectly pressed shrines to Naval Service. Literally.
Pieces of clothing that are guarded over and catered to, cared for as tenderly and lovingly as children, preserved and personally inventoried like J Lo’s wedding bands.
Somehow we just knew we could count on that shrine to be there, intact and complete, when every other piece of clothing known to man was piled high in the laundry basket. Yes, there it would be, for probably the rest of eternity, carefully positioned and painstakingly spaced like motionless closet sentinels.
All twenty perfect sets.
Because, you see, they must have seven sets of dungarees at all times ready to go, one for each day of the week. And one flawless set of Command Personnel Inspection Dungarees that will never know an honest day’s work in its life.
And they must have two sets of “Blues” for alternating use – so that one can march off to the cleaners, when it has the time or suffer the indignity of a sacrificial cleaning by the Bedroom Compost Heap Method, when it doesn’t.
And, of course, they absolutely must have that set of immaculate, pressed-by-God-Himself Inspection Blues, the ones that are practically kept under glass for those rare, momentus occasions when the big guns come riding into town.
Then to the rear are kept and meticulously inspected those other warriors waiting patiently in ranks to leap to the call of duty: Four tropical whites, three dress whites, two Johnny Cashes, and new Chloraframs in a pair tree.
Amazing what you learn about Navy life in those first few, indescribably delicious weeks of wedded bliss:
- You learn how to press and fold a neckerchief wrong at least a hundred different ways.
- You learn the mortal sin of shirt creases that are not “lifer straight” and perpendicular to shoulder seams and hem.
- You learn what it takes to make a grown man howl with despair by hanging the wrong items inside out and the right ones outside in.
- And you learn more about the improper placement of ratings patches and unit identification badges than you ever, ever cared to know in this lifetime…or even the next.
I, thank God, only have retired Navy uniforms to fuss over now. On the other hand, the honeymoon is definitely over at my son’s house. Clothes might make the man, but Nina, Casey’s beautiful wife, definitely draws the line at putting wings on white hats.
If he wants wings, she says: He can call the Air Force.
