Turns out, all I'm really qualified for is janitorial work!

I have no idea how long I was asleep but I do know I was woken up on the most annoying manner. One of the female soldiers staying in the room came in with her raspy smoker's deep voice, "Everyone report to the CQ desk." CQ desk? Okay, Army life is still pretty new to me and the acronyms are flying through my mind like fast furious fingers fumbling through a drawer full of file folders; AIT, PCS, LES, PAC, PX, CO, COLA, BDU, JAG, USAREUR -- what exactly is this CQ business?

Charge of Quarters and reporting there is never good news. This was no exception.

Near my bunk was a window but the darkness that clothed the outdoors gave me no indication as to what time of day it was; it could be night fall or it could be O-Dark-Thirty in the morning. I hadn't a clue. I donned my BDU pants, brown t-shirt, dog tags & threw my hair into a semi regulatory off-the-collar fashion then followed the crowd.

The kind sergeant, kind being a word dripping in sarcasm, that greeted our bus was now standing before us. Adjacent to the CQ desk was a long hallway with inadequate lighting, making it dark and uninviting. The walls had on what seemed the 100th coat of paint, the later being a green that was uglier than any I had seen. The tan tiled floor was shiny and bright, despite the lack of lighting. Where the flooring met the walls, there was a build up of wax, a narrow yellow strip running down the length of the hall. You couldn't see the end of the hallway as the lights down on the end weren't even turned on. There were a few brown doors alternating the left and right sides but each of them were closed and quite frankly, I had no curiosity as to what was behind each one. Sitting there in the hallway near the CQ desk was a buffer --indicating things to come. Though we were still being bossed around, it was nothing like the wrath of a drill sergeant so as much as I wanted to go back to bed and sleep, I wasn't minding this too much.

Barracks details were being assigned and bathrooms were the most dreaded job so most quickly, someone grabbed the buffer -- volunteering to do the floors. As we were still trying to decide who was going to do what with the remaining jobs, I heard the whine of the buffer and as soon as I looked over I saw the buffer fly one way and a female soldier fly in the opposite direction. The kind sergeant was both amused and annoyed and he asked someone else to take over the buffer. Well, one by one these female soldiers were trying to man-handle the buffer, failing miserably each time. Finally I spoke up and said, "I'll do it, I'll buff the floors." I'm not sure but I think the kind sergeant chuckled. I know I looked like the most unlikely candidate for such a task as the handle to the buffer was practically to my shoulders and mind you, I was the soldier that couldn't even pick up her own duffle bag! But what everyone didn't know is that I really was a master buffer-er.

As I watched the soldiers before me wrestle the buffer and the buffer winning each time, I recalled my basic training. One of the very first tasks my drill sergeant taught us was how to use a buffer. Each of us had the same result our first try at it --the buffer sent us flying. In my case, being I was so short and small, my first attempt the buffer turned me into a human kite. As I held tightly onto the handle and the buffer went spinning, the centrifugal force threw my feet behind me and my body went airborne as I held tightly to the handle. As the buffer spun madly out of control, I was flopping around while drill sergeant was yelling, "LET GO! LET GO!" The end result was me, the buffer and the buffer's extra long cord in one tangled mess.

This is what couldn't understand. How did these soldiers graduate basic training without learning to manipulate a buffer? Wasn't this standard TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command) regulation? At least that's what my drill sergeant implied. I was very proud of the fact that in my pledge to defend our country against enemies foreign and domestic, I would leave no floor dull and unbuffed. I am a soldier of The United States Army and having been properly and fully trained, the buffer was my weapon of choice.

I grabbed that buffer and ran it across that floor like it was slick as ice. Everyone stood in awe at my capability. Ha! Their drill sergeants obviously failed them in their training. What they didn't know, as I had learned, the buffer was all about manipulation and not strength. What a proud moment that was as those soldiers walked away with their head hung in shame as that buffer effortlessly glided across that floor with me at the helm. As I guided that buffer in a back and forth motion down the hall I thought, "This is great! In my desire to be all I can be, turns out all I'm really qualified for is janitorial work." Go Army!