It was only a dream...

This afternoon, I went to the firing range with M and his Glock .45. Imagine it, neither of us even used it to shoot the other! We did, however, kill several paper people. They had it coming, I tell you.

Now, having grown up in the great state of Michigan, it should come as no surprise that I have an unnatural lack of fear of firearms. I think I was about six years old the first time I laid my hands on a rifle, and maybe nine when my uncle taught me how to shoot a shotgun. (Of course anyone who has met my uncle Tim will simply nod and chuckle to hear that he had me lean my shoulder against a tree before firing 'to steady myself and brace for the kick'. It took months for that bruise to fully heal.)

For Christmas when I was ten, my parents bought me a .22. I would pull it out at the cabin to shoot at targets, trees, pop cans, and the occasional trash barrel. All in all, I was a pretty good shot for a little girl, if I say so myself.

Today, though, that world seems rather foreign. Other than a pellet gun here and there, I haven't actually fired a weapon in about 25 years. (Wow, that makes me sound old.) When we moved to New York, that was sort of the end of the backwoods days for me. I'm much more of a city girl now...go figure.

So, in urban fashion, it was probably much more fitting to have a handgun in my grasp today. I'm sure that M would have found the entire thing much more entertaining if I had been nervous, but such is life. I'm just glad that we're at a place now where we can have fun together - even with weapons. You never know with all of the different phases he and I have gone through, right?

When we arrived, there was only one other chick in the joint. She was pretty butchy in general, so I felt....well, as if everyone was surely snickering. Being in jeans and sweatshirt helped, and when I added a Cubs baseball cap, safety goggles, and big honking ear protection, I felt like I fit in a bit more. This was not a day to worry about whether my lipstick was perfect, after all.

As we were waiting to check in, a young Asian man with bad acne, ridiculous hair, and a bit of an odd smell about him picked up his cell phone. "I'm going to call my dad," he said. "Wish me luck." After a few moments, the call connected. "Yeah, can I talk to my dad?" -pause- "Hi. Can I come pick up my stuff?" -another pause- then nothing. He flipped the phone closed and put it back in his pocket. Then he grabbed his pistol and stomped through the door into the range. That, I must admit, troubled me slightly. If I were his dad, I'd have let him come get his shit. I'm just sayin'.

It seems that shooting a .45 is significantly more of a challenge than a .22. The kick is pretty good, and aiming is not as easy as you'd think. M was right - it's not a surprise that everyone is always missing in the movies. Although I was no Bruce Willis, I don't think I embarrassed myself completely. The paper people quivered in fear (or a bit of a breeze), and nobody laughed at me. At least not out loud (for which I'm grateful).

M, on the other hand, is a pretty good shot - which is why I let him win at gin rummy afterwards. I may not be incredibly bright sometimes, but I'm not a total idiot :)

Thanks, M. If we ever do it again, can we use that automatic-rocket-launcher-thing we saw on the way out? Cuz that would be awesome.