Scary!

I did not grow up in a home that offered many opportunities to do daring things. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it has very much colored what I think of as exciting. And it also put me in the odd position of feeling that I was a boring person when really I'm not. It's fun to think that I spent most of my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood reading books, and now that I have reached the age that I have, it is time to have more firsthand experience.

Today was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I think it was even scarier than the day I fell in a lake with alligators.

I went to a shooting range.

One of my awesome friends, whose personality is decidedly yellow, if you're into the color code thing, mentioned on Monday that she was taking a firearms safety course. When I seemed intrigued, she offered to let me come along. I might be very cautious about it, but when it comes to something new and foreign, I'm usually game. So I took her up on it.

We spent the afternoon handling a variety of empty guns (the ammo, as required by law, had to be stored in a separate part of the house during the class) and learning about gun safety. Then we had a short break and headed out to the shooting range, where we practiced with real guns with real bullets, then took the firing test.

The first time I pulled the trigger of a loaded 9 mm glock, I almost had a nervous breakdown. I was so shaken I nearly gave up then and there. They coaxed me into firing what was left in the magazine, and then I stepped back, determined to be an observer from that point forward.

Fortunately, the instructors were kind. They gave me a breather, got me some headphones to enhance my earplugs, and let me trade out the 9 mm for a Browning 22. After loading up and shooting that baby, I was feeling pretty ok.

So, to pass the test, you have to shoot 40 times and hit the target at least 28 times. I hit 37 times. Oh, yeah.

I called to tell my daddy all about it, and because we're all about logic and reality vs. validation, he pointed out that at a range of 7, 5, and 3 yards, you don't have to be all that good. And with a 22, you're really not going to do much damage anyway. But it's a lot harder to handle a gun than it looks.

And I passed the test.

Oddly enough, during our dinner break, my awesome yellow friend was talking about some of the situations she encounters at work as a therapist. Our other friend and I were asking lots of questions, and she told us to draw a picture of a person in a rainstorm and she would psychoanalyze us.

It wasn't as terrifying as shooting a pistol, but I was a bit scared of being psychoanalyzed as well. It turned out fine.

And now, there is gunpowder in my nose.