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"Time with my girl I spent it well
I had to be strong for my woman
(You must be joking, o man you must be joking)
She need to be protected"
I Love a Man in Uniform a song by the Gang of Four, 1982. Memories.
I love a man in uniform. Sad, but true. An admission. My Mum does, too. She was the daughter of one. And dated one. And married one, albeit that his uniform is a white coat and his weapon a stethoscope. She isn't afraid to say that she loves a man in uniform.
There is a reason why women love a man in uniform. Scientists have found an evolutionary impulse for women's attraction to military heroes, in particular. A study by the University of Southampton published in the journal 'Evolution and Human Behaviour' found that women are more likely to find war veterans attractive when presented with hypothetical male profiles representing heroism across different scenarios. Those who boasted humanitarian endeavours were not rated as highly, nor were jocks. The uniformed veterans won the day. It seems that nothing can beat a pair of well-filled combat trews.
There is something profoundly atavistic underpinning such an appeal. It has something to do with the fact that that someone (in uniform) can take care of himself, and by default you, too. Plus there is also the chance that he can pick you up and carry you off to bed like Richard Gere did in 'An Officer and a Gentleman'. Ah. Sigh. Delicious chap. In a uniform, too.
Back in the day all our boys went off to the army; national service it was called. Not sure how national that service was, in fact not sure it was a service either. A disservice is more appropriate a descriptor. But off they went. It was what it was. Some as young as 16, off in the back of a truck or on a train. Auschwitz-style. To a place with a funny name like Potchestroom, Klerksdorp, even Upington. These places, mostly inland, hot and dusty, weren't on our holiday destination lists so we didn't know where our men were off to. They went off and then were taught how to crawl around in the dirt and shoot at those termed 'terrorists'. Nowadays, when my friends coochy-coo over, and helicopter parent, their sweet little boys aged 18, I have much to say. The current dilemma is whether the little men are going to survive a week in Plett on their own in a luxury rented house with caterers supplying regular meals over the dreaded Plett Rage period. I remind them that I am not sure about their sons, but my son should survive. You see, my son is the son of a war veteran. My son and heir should thus survive. After all, his father was crawling around the Angolan landscape at the age of 17 (not 18) shooting into bushes in case he was shot at first. I am sure this father's son will survive his holiday in Plett. Just saying.
John32 wore a uniform. Oh my aching nerves.
John32 is a pilot for one of our airlines. He was drop dead gorgeous in that uniform. I could hardly speak when coffee'ing with him. He was not in uniform that particular day but I was picturing him in his uniform. Hence not being able to focus on the conversation. I could picture him yanking off his hat and throwing it like a Frisbee across the bedroom. I shall not continue on my current line of thought as this is read by some more conservative folk. I am not referring to my father. He is constantly complaining that there is not even one - let alone 50 - shades of grey in Project Boyfriend. He is disappointed in me. As are my non-John friends who are waiting patiently for some smut.
John32 took to the skies. Perhaps my day dreaminess was off-putting? Perhaps the fact that I asked him how many free international tickets he received a year made him wary of my intentions? Whatever. John32 is strutting his stuff in his uniform. I am settling for men in suits for the moment. I like a man in a suit.