Hot Range
May 31, 2011
For the last two summers, every group outing to my de facto sister-in-law’s lakefront property has been accompanied by a .22 rifle and a very persistent boyfriend. To date, I have not fired it. I like to watch, and I like to take pictures, and I like to cheer for the boys while they take turns perforating a jug of water, but I do not participate. It’s not so much (or at all, actually) that I am afraid of the gun; rather, I don’t like being bad at things, which translates into refusing to try a new skill for the very first time while being watched by other people. This stubbornness is particularly annoying to John, who has a fondness both for weapons and cute girls wielding them. It’s a pride thing, I know; I’m working on it.
Yesterday I wrapped my skinny arms around a hi-point .45 ACP carbine, and as I squirmed uncomfortably and whined “I can’t do this!”, I found myself in an unyielding bear hug from behind. John’s grip welded my hands to the gun, and he refused to let me give it back.
“Remember when you posted that photo to your Facebook of some skinny girl with a gun, and the caption said ‘I am compensating for the fact that most violent criminals are bigger and stronger than me’? Well, this is your chance to mean it. This is important for you to know, okay?”
It was almost that precise moment when I realized just how often I catch myself panicking and insisting that I can’t do something, and my resolve wavered. After all, I am probably the most obstinate person I know; not to mention the fact that I would spend my last breath insisting to anybody that he or she could do absolutely anything in the world, and never to believe otherwise.
So I pulled the trigger.
And it felt good.
