Victory Dance

People in my line of work love rituals.
They serve an important purpose for us.
The nature of what we do is so unpredictable, we take comfort in rites of certainty.

I have a few.
I don't have to be at work until 2:30. I begin my preparation just after noon.
I turn on Rush Limbaugh, as background noise.
I have a hot shower, shave, and brush my teeth.
I put on my underclothes, which are a special kind.
I stretch. Hamstrings, calves, quads. Biceps, triceps, chest and back.
Once I am loose, I do some pushups, then stretch again.
I lay out my uniform, my tools, and my armor.
I take a moment, looking at them, considering them.
I put it all on, deliberately, insuring that they ride properly and won't shift out of place.
Once dressed, I close my eyes. I reach for each of my tools, quickly, refreshing the muscle memory, so I won't have to think should I need them.
My eyes still closed, I draw my weapon. Over and over, smooth is fast, fast is smooth.
I open my eyes and repeat. Smooth is fast, fast is smooth. Get it out, find the sights.
I recheck my creases and gig lines, then I head out the door to confront whatever the world will throw at me.

At the end of the week, when I return home, I have my Victory Dance.
I pour myself a masculine drink. Whiskey, on the rocks, a little bit of water.
I go upstairs, and sip it as I take off my gear.
It helps me relax after a long week of not relaxing. Yeah, I have moments during the week while I am not "on", but I am still... there.
Once my week is over, I don't have to be there.

My Victory Dance officially ends my week.
It is my reward for coming home alive.