If I’m going to join a shooting range, I’ll need bangs

If you read this blog, you know that Ed dragged me to a gun show several weekends ago.  What I didn’t mention was that we actually purchased a gun while we were there.  It’s not pink but it is a lovely matte silver with black.  It goes with most of my outfits.  Some of you might wonder why that matters.  It matters because we live in the wild west in a state with only one gun law: You must own a gun. That means you can carry it without a permit.

Since I haven’t fired a handgun in over thirty years, Ed thought it prudent that we take some classes so that I could avoid shooting off my foot.  I did agree that this was a sound plan. 

So, on Saturday, we took an NRA sanctioned and approved super beginner “like you’ve never seen a gun in your life even on tv” pistol class.  There were only three people in the class, me, Ed and a hapless college student.  I felt sorry for her.  I feel sorry for anyone trapped with just me and Ed.  For eight hours, all in a row.

After introducing ourselves and giving our brief gun backgrounds, I stopped feeling sorry for her.  Sure, now she was a college student but for the last EIGHT years, she was in the military!!!!  As far as I’m concerned, that’s cheating.  You can’t say you’re a beginner if the government issues you an M16 that you have to sleep with every night.

I’m slightly competitive – of the three of us, I was sure to be the worst gun shooter there.  At this point, I was ready to go home.  Ed knows me and didn’t even need to look at my face before he says, “This is not a competition, so calm yourself.”

That’s easy for a 200lb man who can bench press over 300lbs to say.  He wasn’t going to come in dead last and accidentally shoot a his own foot, ruining his $45.00 pedicure. 

ID Guy holding Target

As it turned out – I didn’t come in third out of three people, I came in first.  FIRST.  The instructors were surprised.  Ed was bemused.  The college/military girl was shocked.  However, I was not surprised, bemused or shocked.  I was mad. 

Bangs

Just before we started target practice, Ed signed us up to join the shooting range.  They make you up an ID card right there, on the spot, with your picture – no matter how many times you say “Not today – I need a haircut.”  I hate having my picture taken, it’s always awful.  I took one look at it and realized I was in desperate need of bangs.  Every shot I took at the target was really at the ID guy who takes such rotten pictures. 

That’s how I came in first.