I turn 52 today.

Funny, the old broken guy in the mirror doesn’t look like the strapping, barrel-chested freedom fighter in my head.

The vast majority of my adult life was spent in the Army. I retired just shy of three years ago. Adjusting okay to civilian life; as “civilian” as being a DoD contractor gets.

I realized, though, during a recent exercise, that I’m doing it wrong.

Wrote about how my unit hosted a bunch of our Partner Nation brethren for an exercise. Adding to the complexity of support planning, the first weekend was a Reserve training weekend and we reside on a Reserve base.

So, had to find an off-post place to house all my brethren. Did that, great place, solid contract all around; PN, Hotel, US taxpayer: Everyone got a good deal.

I was sucking, though. Add the commute and the stumbling around the house trying to get dressed for work at O-dark-thirty and trying not to wake up the kids home from college, it wasn’t pretty. When the drill weekend ended, 05 August, I promptly moved into the BOQ, about 200 metres from the exercise site, and could dedicate full-time priority to the exercise. I stayed there through the 11th. My life revolved around the exercise; the local Air Force Inn was just a place to put my head down a couple hours, and then get back to it. The linchpin, though, was my cage.

My unit has a large locker room, the cages are lockers. They are bigger than, say, a wall locker; smaller than an NFL guy’s walk-in changing space. Big enough that you can launch from work on a no-notice contingency. Coat and tie for the Embassy? Check. Outdoor civilian roughs for romping around the hinterlands? Check. Tactical gear for when the schnitteth headeth southeth? Check.

I lived out of my cage before I retired. Roll out of the rack, put on a grungy (yet offensive to anyone who read it) t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, and hit the road for work. Personal hygiene, physical training, dressing for work, all happened at the workplace, on account of I had my cage.

When I came back on board the unit as a contractor, my Directorate issued me a cage. I put a couple contractor-type polo shirts in there, a couple of personnel hygiene items, some workout clothes “just in case.”

Over the course of the exercise, though, I realized I wasn’t ordered enough. I wasn’t using the cage mentality.

Now, I got it. At least the concept. Still getting the details dialed in.

Roll out of the rack and take care of business (dog out, trash out, dishwasher emptied/reloaded). Roll out for work in “Keys casual,” as mentioned above (not, note, “Keys super casual,” which is usually just flip flops, a jockstrap, and a light coat of vegetable oil), get to work, and use the cage as the center for my daily rituals.

I’m a big believer that rituals help impose order. Morning shower and personal hygiene? Night is done, day has come, transition to wakefulness and readiness. Donning the uniform (in my case, a very classy polo shirt, cargo pants, and good footwear–usually with a brand name like Merrell or Salomon)? A ritual that signifies, “hey, you’re not on your time anymore; game face on.” After work, putting on the PT clothes and pulling the GI off the hanger? Now it’s time to push, and become better than I am and hit the dojo; in our case, a contracted master of mayhem that instructs every day out of a tricked out old hangar at/about 1700 hours. After the dojo, a quick clean water rinse in the showers, back into ratty tee and cargo shorts (still good footwear), and transition to going home and “my” time. Sobriety optional.

Getting back into the cage is key to leveraging ritual in order to be better. I’m not saying I’m getting extreme with the ritual schtick, just saying I need to do better.