Madame, get your gun! Part 1.

The past few years around my birthday (this is a month late because of being sick) I've decided to act like an adult and tackle some issues standing in the way of world domination - like drive-thru tellers.  So this year I got the chance to try something I always wanted to do - shoot shit with a deadly weapon!

So recently if you've experienced a sudden and overwhelming feeling of safety - like a giant teddy bear was rocking you to sleep while fingerbanging you - it's because I passed my safety course in Guns 'N Bang Bang Shit!  

My heart feels like shooting some pistols in the air like Yosemite Sam but that would violate the first rule of gun safety which is to always point the muzzle in a safe direction.  I learn good.  The second rule of gun safety is to say filth and farn and filth when you miss your target.  I also violate this rule because I use other F words.   

Somehow I managed to control my mouth and this Madame is now certified to carry a concealed firearm should I wish to do so!   

Wait, that doesn't sound very safe after all... 

My family hails from Texas so I'm genetically predisposed to liking red meat and weapons.  If that weapon was able to procure the red meat even better.  I also grew up in the kuntry where we had more guns than minorities.  I'm not scared of rifle fire unless I know Dick Cheney is nearby.  

And although I'm a product of my generation - a generation whose defining cultural contribution was gangsta rap -  

I am terrified of handguns.  

TERRIFIED.  

Terrified like an errant chest hair during the filming of Magic Mike kind of terrified.  I've never even touched a gun and just the thought of physically holding one made my stomach flip flop.  

Which is oddly the same reaction I have when I see this gif...

But there was always a nagging feeling that if I could just get past the excruciating terror then I'd probably really fucking dig it.  Kinda like my relationship with Brussels sprouts (and possibly my feelings about waxed chests...?).  At the very least I'd have conquered a fear and Oprah says that's important for my spiritual growth.  

So an opportunity presented itself for a class about safety and I put on my big girl panties and signed up with a friend.  I was hoping for something similar to those paint-your-own-pottery wine nights but with no wine and we get to learn about deadly weapons instead of pumpkin mugs.   Knowledge is power, y'all.  The more you know. *shooting star* 

Seeing as that I had zero experience with firearms I decided to have a private lesson before the main class.  Here I would get some preliminary knowledge and try all different kinds of guns which sounded exciting if I survived the excruciating terror part.  

Between you, me and the interwebz, I needed a private class because I was so nervous that I thought I might either pee or vomit or cry or all of the above once the gun thingies were introduced into the equation.  Excretion of bodily fluid was imminent and I wanted to limit the number of witnesses.  I would be paying the one instructor/witness so he would be contractually obliged to hold my hair back should the need arise.


Not gonna lie - there were a few times on the drive to the shooting range that first morning where I almost lost my grande iced soy latte.  Not only was I going to try out some death cannons but  STRANGERS! NEW SITUATIONS!  SUMMER HEAT!!!  

These are a few of my least favorite things.

When Mr. Instructor Man started laying out all the guns on our bench my mouth went dry because all moisture had left my body in the form of an intense and immediate full-body flop sweat. 

I think I managed to hold it together thanks to adrenaline and the caffeine.  I tried to plaster a winning smile on my face to distract from the terror I was feeling inside.  

Look at me I'm so normal right now!  AHAHAHAHAHA I'M BREEZY.

I don't think he could tell at all.  But things were dicey there and I I'm not sure what happened during those first few minutes.  Mr. Instructor Man may have thought I had a mild stroke because of the gibberish and profuse sweating.

But we started slow using our mouth words and away from the thousands of terror pistols he had laid out on our death bench.  I learned all kinds of important things like all the parts of a gun and the ammunition and the fact that I'm cross dominant.  

"MOTHERFUCKING YEAH I'M DOMINANT!  *air guitar solo* Uh... what does that mean?"  

Turns out that even though I'm right-handed (the Lord's way) I use my left eye for important things like lining up a shot and scoping out the clearance racks at Target.  I'm special.

The first taste of my new gunslinger lifestyle was a laser gun which was a nice gateway drug to the real stuff and lessened my impending hysteria.  It would be great to use during PowerPoint presentations to jazz up your meetings too.  I aced this one due to my previous Duck Hunt experience.

The first real gun with actual bullets he let me shoot was a .22 caliber giant canon of some kind with a scope, a wood handle, a mile long barrel and a windsock.  I lined up the windsock as best I could in my shaky grip,  released some bodily fluid that I'll let you use your imagination with and took my first shot...  

KABLAMMO!

That's the (totally realistic) sound of the gun and my panties simultaneously exploding.  A proud moment.

Actual footage from my lesson.

It felt really good - exhilarating and maybe sexy (?) and weirdly anticlimactic.  I guess when there's so much build-up that's bound to happen.  Especially when you're losing your shooting virginity with such a small caliber bullet.  

Regardless of the small size of the bullet, I had an immediate urge to mount something and SHOOT ALL THE THINGS!!  RAWWRR!  Instead I gleefully and embarrassingly exclaimed "I did it!" like instead of shooting a bullet I pooped in the potty for the first time.  

I did it!  I'll let you guess what.

Mr. Instructor Man had the good manners to not roll his eyes to my face.

Once I realized I was more in danger of mounting unsuspecting range guests than passing out, I was able to settle down and get to work shooting shit.  My initial fears were replaced with even MOAR adrenaline and pheromones and I started destroying everything within a 5 foot radius of my target.  We'll figure out the aim part later.

However, the raging chemicals and the nervous state of my insides dropped my IQ by at least 20 points and made me awkwardly chatty.  I had this weird one-sided conversation throughout the morning where I threw out intelligent gems like:

"This magazine is heavy!"

"My fingers are weird..."

"Wow, this gun is getting hot."

"It's not me, it's the targets..."

"Does this come with a comfort grip?"

"That was oww-y."

"Have you had any accidents in any of your classes?"

"Can you make a tourniquet?"

"Gee golly, that was loud!"

"Am I doing good do you like me can you be my life sensei how about BFFF best firearm friends forever?"

And on and on and on with my bullshit drivel.  To his credit, my instructor was exceptionally nice and very encouraging in the face of such blatant vacuity.  I felt really comfortable which probably led to my inane chatter.  It's his fault really.

Probably like many other lady people, that was another area that kept me from taking lessons sooner: the possible instructors.  I figured I'd get a weirdo ex-military crank job who kept calling me honey and talking about how girls have no upper body strength.  I mean, I DON'T have upper body strength but I don't need strange men yelling at me about it. 

I was born with these tiny biceps stop yelling at me!

But I was the one with the prejudices that were proven wrong so #1 I'm the asshole and #2 don't be scurred, ladies.  Before even having met me, Mr. Instructor Man had much more confidence in my abilities than I did.  

So with a lot of his encouragement and probably a bit of beginner's luck (adrenaline surges make your senses ON POINT), I was surprised to find out that he was totally right.  I did fine and am actually not the worst shooter ever!  I don't think...  Ten years of drawing every day for a living does wonders for your hand/eye coordination.  

By the end of our class I got to put my sweaty hands on at least half a dozen different guns.  A Glock so I could pretend to be in a rap video, a few carry options, some revolvers and even a .357 Magnum because fuck it - LET'S DO DIS!  Mr. Instructor Man told me I didn't have to shoot more than one round because it's a big ass gun but I emptied all the rounds into that paper plate target like a boss.    

Apparently, Mr. Instructor Man was impressed by my saucy shooting because he videotaped my hands firing the .357 for his "website."  A website that I'm guessing is called ManicuresAndMagnums.com.  Dudes everywhere are jacking off to my delicate lady hands around a gun right now.  [MS sidebar: I'm kidding.  He was not a pervert - obviously I am.  For serious, let's take another class together Chattavegas peeps!]

I left my private lesson drenched in sweat, make-up running, physically and mentally exhausted (strokes and explosions will do that to you) and immediately went home and had a very long but fitful nap where I dreamed about guns.  

And then I dreamed about guns again that night.  

I think I had a shooter's high. I had so much energy I was forced - FORCED! - to go outside and aggressively pull weeds until I exhausted myself again so I could go to sleep and dream about shooting targets again.  Next stop: Olympics 2048!

I've thought about shooting pretty much all the time since then.  I have a Tiger Beat style crush on putting holes in things.  We have unleashed the monster and - watch out! - I have reasonable aim.  

It would have been nice to find a new hobby that was cheaper and less dangerous than shooting guns but I always have to make things more complicated.  Maybe I should investigate crocheting or cooking or blogging...?

But this was just my first few hours into my new hobby, come back tomorrow for the 2nd part of my gun class adventures.  And then I'll shut up about it for a while.  

Maybe...