A PCS move, or military transfer, is a common thread for us active duty folks. Moving every 2-3 years for many of us, is simply part of the deal. There are those few lucky ones that may get to stay in one place for a couple of tours consecutively, but that isn’t how it goes all the time. We’ve bounced around the country for over a decade and are just about to move into our 8th home. (I still hope for orders to Italy or England, but by the sound of my husband’s laughter, it’s not a very likely possibility!)
This particular move has been drawn out the longest. All together, we’ll have lived out of our suitcases for 50 days. It’s quite a time to be nomads, particularly if you are a natural homebody like myself. We of course market the journey as an adventure to our minions, and in some ways, it really is. All the “life is what you make it”, “bloom where you’re planted”, and “home is where the navy sends us” platitudes apply. I believe these things about 95% of the time. I consider ourselves fortunate to have lived in the places we have and have met incredible friends along the way.
That remaining 5%? Yeah, that’s where I’m at now. The anticipation, the waiting for the household goods to arrive, the dream of sleeping in my own bed again (in sheets washed in my own washer) are the thoughts currently occupying my mind. That 5% is the yuckiness, the blahs. The sick of eating out. The “I can’t wait for our first home cooked meal!” and bringing back the familiar routines. The limbo phase. The vacation is over, the novelty has run it’s course. I’m ready.
So what does a PCS transfer feel like? It’s like holding your breath as you travel place to place, keeping it all together, making it an adventure, until it’s time to set up the new nest. And finally, finally being able to exhale.
I’m ready to put away the suitcases. I’m ready to breathe again.