Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Tuesday night I wrapped my hands around some heat...

Yes, dear readers, I finally made it to the gun range up in New Albany and lived to tell the tale.

It was such an unlikely location for my first, and likely last, experience shooting a gun. I was surprised to find the joint packed. Apparently Tuesday night is a good night to blow things away! The place was filled with a mixture of people from all over the social / economic chart. It was very interesting as far as people watching goes. I wondered if I stuck out like a sore thumb in my work attire.

The first thing you have to do is sign a waiver and watch a safety video. My shooting companion (let's call him Shooter X) sat restlessly through it, but I watched it with great interest. Shooter X instructs future soldiers on how to shoot...I, on the other hand, am just a silly housewife from Hilliard with a violent imagination who wanted to leave with the same number of fingers that she came in with.

As we waited for a lane to open, I wandered around and looked at all the guns for sale. There was something there for everyone...and I appreciated their beauty. I also noticed how expensive they were! Owning a gun is a serious investment. I decided then and there that if I were to ever fork over a few hundred dollars for a gun, that I would not buy the silly "girl gun" with the pink handle. Please! Who could ever take you seriously with that thing? On the other hand, I didn't need an Uzi nor a big shiny gun with a 9 inch barrel to feel butch. The geeky gamer in me did like the coffin gun case though.

Shooter X asked me to pick out the targets I wanted to blow away...or attempt to I should say. I felt a bit overwhelmed at the choices. There were body shaped ones, zombie ones, bulls eye ones and even one with a bowling pin on it. I felt really stupid. Which ones matched the guns we would use? Were some meant only for riffles? I ended up making Shooter X pick it out - which I think annoyed him. Sorry Shooter X.

When it was finally our turn to take the lane, I began to feel quite nervous. The room we entered was not what I had pictured in my head. I thought it would be private, cool and quiet. Instead, it was small, hot and dirty. The floor was littered with hundreds of empty shell casings. Couldn't the staff be bothered to clean them up between shooters? Then the smell hit me. Sulfur and hot lead...it stung my eyes and would cling to me long after we left.

Shooter X had brought with him a small army of guns for my choosing from his own personal arsenal. It was only a small selection of the many he owned, but it was more than enough for me. My eyes went immediately to a sleek silver model (which, as it turned out, was Shooter X's own choice for personal protection...I felt a bit smug that I had chosen wisely). I watched Shooter X fill the clips with ammunition and before I was really ready, he was handing me a loaded gun. That's when the people in the lane next to us...who were about 3 feet away...began shooting their gun. Holy crap! I just about jumped out of my skin. Loud is not an adequate word to describe the noise that came from the other side of that thin panel of plastic separating us. It truly frightened me! Shooter X seemed unphased by the sudden and unexpected discharge. I somehow managed to not jump straight into his arms, but I did inch as close as I could next to him.

What can I say dear reader...when Shooter X put that gun in my hand I almost chickened out. It was really fucking scary to have a loaded gun in my hand. Everything about that room and that moment seemed violent to me. I really could not romanticize it at all. It wasn't cool. It was a loaded gun. This wasn't a video game. The weapon in my hand wasn't a toy. I could hurt someone with it. I felt very responsible for my every movement. Shooter X warned me that the first time you shoot a gun "it scares the hell out of you"...nice pep talk...and he was right.

I tried (and failed) to relax my hands...apparently I was holding the gun so tightly that my hands were turning bright red...and bend my elbows like he instructed me. Instead I kept my death grip on the sucker and locked my arms. From watching Shooter X take a couple of shots first, I knew to expect a kick-back. I didn't want the damned thing to fly out of my hands. Shooter X calmly told me - many times - that I would not drop the gun, but I didn't believe him. Finally it was time to put up or shut up. I aimed at the body-shaped target, put my finger on the trigger and squeezed.

BAM!

Holy Shit! The whole gun just came to life. It jerked hard and I really thought it would fly out of my sweaty palms. It didn't...just like Shooter X promised...but I didn't feel like I was in control of it at all. I couldn't even say what happened to the bullet. The hot metal shell flew out of the gun and landed somewhere behind me. I thought it would be empowering - and yes, cool as hell - to shoot a gun. Instead, I wanted to cry. It really freaked me out. I think I would have been happy to just turn to Shooter X at that point and say, "Well, that was interesting - thanks!" and walk away. I didn't though because:

1) I didn't want Shooter X to think I was a wuss.
2) He seemed eager for me to try some of the other guns he had brought.
3) He had paid a lot of money for me to have this opportunity and I couldn't bring myself to stop after just one turn without looking like a huge, ungrateful jerk.

I did try the other guns and I must admit that it did get easier...although each time I pulled the trigger I was still scared to death. I liked the kind of gun that the FBI uses...a 45 I think...and I also learned that I prefer a rubber grip. I'm also damned proud to say that I actually hit the red target in the center of the body a few times. Shooter X actually said "Good Job!" a couple of times too. That made me really happy with myself. Before I could really get into a groove, however, the range announced it was closing time. I was a bit disappointed.

I did get a chance to watch Shooter X fire off a few clips. He was obviously an excellent shot. I was amazed to watch him shoot a round off in rapid succession...grouping his bullets with ease. He, unlike me, seemed to be in complete control of his weapon. Is it wrong for me to admit that Shooter X got a little sexier at that moment? :)

Before we left, I asked Shooter X if I could try to shoot at a target further out...we had been shooting at targets at 25-30 feet away. So he put up a fresh sheet and rolled it out to 45 feet. I got in my stance, sure that I could do this. I emptied the clip and he rolled it back in. Nothing. NOT ONE BULLET had hit it! I couldn't believe it. How embarrassing! I mean, really. I wouldn't have blamed Shooter X for laughing right in my face, but he didn't. Thanks Shooter X.

It was an experience of a life-time and I'm glad that I did it. It was definitely an adrenalin rush. I don't think the NRA should be looking for my application any time soon though. I really don't think I'll ever do that again. I do have the confidence now, however, that if I had to protect myself with a gun that I could...as long as they bad guy was 25-30 feet away that is. LOL :)

As it turns out, I should have listened to Shooter X about relaxing more. The next morning I thought I was going to die! My shoulders, neck and wrists hurt like hell. I felt like someone had beaten me. I'm sure it was because I was so rigid.

I'm not sure what I'll do next...but I'm looking forward to checking off another item on my wish list. I'm just so very grateful to Shooter X for the experience. I felt safe with him...and he was very patient with me and all my questions. It was a better experience because I was with him. Thanks Shooter X...it seems appropriate to have shared another "first" with you. :)

Long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last for 3 days...

Whatever happened to the art of kissing? Why do you have to be a hormonal teenager to feel the bliss which comes from your lips meeting those of another? Can you still remember when all you wanted to do is kiss the object of your affection? Can you recall how you would kiss for so long that your lips would get chapped? What happened to that?

Is it me or does it feel like the older you get, the act of kissing becomes tame and domesticated? Once you get to know what comes after "first base," why are we in such a hurry to round that base? After nearly 13 years of marriage, the only kind of kisses I get are functionary, pecks on the lips or cheek. The kiss has become a starting point - not a destination. How could we allow it to lose its appeal and importance?

What I wouldn't give to feel the passion of a first kiss again. Sometimes, I wish I could forget everything that comes afterward just so I could concentrate on that single kiss and enjoy it like I used to. The way your heart beats hard in your chest and every nerve in your body feels electric.

Maybe one of the most memorable kisses I have ever witnessed was this one between actors Adrien Brody and Halle Berry at the Oscars:

It was so spontaneous and passionate, that I bet it remains the single most perfect kiss she has ever experienced. There wasn't a women (or perhaps man) in that audience who wouldn't have loved to have been on the receiving end of that kiss.

I want to be swept off my feet again by a passionate kiss.

A momentary lapse of reason...

A friend of mine recommended a book to me...from which the following two passages really struck a nerve in me:

From "How to be Good" by Nick Hornby

"You see, what I really want, and what I'm getting with Stephen, is the opportunity to rebuild myself from scratch. David's picture of me is complete now, and I'm pretty sure neither of us likes it much; I want to rip the page out and start again on a fresh sheet, just like I used to do when I was a kid and had messed a drawing up. It doesn't even matter who the fresh sheet is really...I just want his rapt attention when I tell him my favorite book and I just want that feeling I get with him, of having not gone wrong yet."


"It's true that I don't want David to be David anymore. I want things to be structurally the same...I just don't want that voice, that tone, that permanent scowl. I want him to like me, in fact. Is that really too much to ask of a husband?"



When I sit across from my version of "Stephen" I don't necessarily see a chance for a fresh sheet...but instead it is more like I can see a first draft version of myself in his eyes. Before I made all the wrong turns and life was open and full of opportunity. When I'm with him, for a moment I can remember how it is to be just me...and not a mother or wife. I miss that girl of yesterday. I grieve for her. I like that version of me...before life happened.

I want to climb into his car and drive far and fast. I want to escape this place...this person I am. I do not like this second draft version of me. I wonder how he sees me? It is as if regardless of the passing of time, he is still my constant. A part of me of me is forever drawn to him like a magnet. It is comforting and easy. He is home.

I feel the pressing of time...it is slipping away from me too quickly. I want to grab it up and keep it in my greedy hands. Does he know his secret smiles, meant just for me, breathe fresh life into me? I know that I share too much during these fleeting moments - I'm afraid of running out of time. I want to submerge myself completely in the moment and rise again renewed.

I am confused by his careful distance. Is it for a lack of want? Am I so easily forgotten? Am I not worthy of temptation? Or am I to be impressed by his fortitude? Is restraint how one shows real love? I don't know these answers. I only know that I am so filled by reality and reason that I am suffocating under it. It presses me down until I am choking. Can you blame me for running toward the wide open space?

This pot has settled for so long that it has become stagnant. It has forgotten the joy of movement and motion. That is no life at all.

stir...stir...stir

Song of the moment: "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket

Song Lyric of the moment: "When I suffer from your neglect, it is my responsibility." from "Now I'm Gone" by Juliana Hatfield