I love olives. The giant ones stuffed with their little red partner, soaked in a bath of indulgent vodka, are small mouth-gasms. I savor them one by one as the vodka level sinks, the ice melts, and my body relaxes.

There is an Army version of the mouth-gasm.

Boots are never pleasant to wear. Hiking boots, cowboy boots, combat boots may be comfortable. They may be protective. But they are never something I look forward to encasing my feet in. After 15 hours of tramping around dusty, uneven fields and wading through stagnant trenches, there is nothing I look forward to more than sitting my tired bones down on a flat surface and wrestling the cherished Army boots off my feet. Peeling the sweaty, socks off, inside out is indulgent, but adds to the pleasure of feeling cool air surround my tired toes. Incredible, bilateral foot-gasm.

It is at that moment when I know my day is done, and I know it is time to search out my treasured, and usually half empty, jar of olives.