Bunker or Bust ... No Cameras Allowed

For some reason, as a teen-ager, I imagined my life would involve a course more along the lines of "Berkely or bust" but, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and free-spirited girls.

So, there I was, sound asleep in my wood-tent-building, snuggled under my electric blanket, dreaming - I'm sure - of either dark chocolate or hubba bubba, when I was roused from my slumber by three short blasts of the siren followed by an intercom announcement: Red Alert, Red Alert, Red Alert. Report to the nearest bunker in kevlar vests and helmets. Red Alert, Red Alert, Red Alert ... bunker drill exercise.

I was never so happy to hear the word "exercise", in all my life. My relief, however, was short-lived when I realized it was 0300 hours. If you're slow on the uptake for calculating "military time", let me help you out: 3 a!m!.

One might imagine that I would be bitter about being shocked awake - only three hours after going to sleep and only three hours before waking up for work - for anything other than the real thing, but one would be wrong. And do you want to know why I was not bitter? Hmmm? I was not bitter because I have a "bunker bag" packed, ready to go and hanging on a hook by the door in the event of just such an emergency (some folks pack "baby bags", I pack a "bunker bag". I live in Afghanistan!).

Before I came to Afghanistan I promised myself two things. First, that I would work out, eat healthy and be even healthier in my thirties than I had been in my twenties. Second, that if I were ever called to the bunker, all bets were off! and I was gonna eat everything I'd denied myself in the name of the treadmill! So, the contents of my bunker bag will make you hope you end up in my bunker if ever you find yourself bunker bound in Afghanistan.

Cira's Bunker Bag Contents:
flashlight, ho-ho's, warm socks, dark chocolates, gloves, chocolate chip cookies, bottled water, reeses' peanut butter cups, transistor radio, doritos, camping/hiking nasa blanket thing, whole cashews, passport, gummy bears, a daily devotional for service members (because when you're really called to the bunker, not even dark chocolote is enough - thank you, dad) and ritz crackers with canned cheese whiz. To be added in the near future: hubba bubba (uh-uhhhm, Mr. Lang).

While I can't exactly say that I or the 19 strangers in pajamas, kevlar gear and helmets, enjoyed the bunker drill, I can definitely say that it could have been worse. Instead of grumbling about the cold or the tired or the craziness of voluntarily working in a combat-zone, we sat, hunkered in our bunker in companionable silence, munching our snacks and trading cookies for gummy bears like third-graders with boxed lunches. The real beauty of the moment was that I think every last one of us gave thanks before devouring our snacks - maybe the realest thanks I've ever given - that this was only an exercise.