.....And then I went to a Shooting Range

It might come as a shock to you that I don't often engage in activities that involve any sort of athletic skill, or eye hand coordination.  Actually, now that I think about it, it should come as absolutely no shock to you whatsoever that I am not athletic of physically coordinated. I literally spill wine on myself when drinking it straight from the bottle. But you know what? YOLO, right? And by "YOLO" I mean, "I'm about to turn 30 and one day I'm going to need to learn how to defend myself from the animals I have begun hoarding once I am bedridden and living alone." So, when my dad asked if I wanted to go shooting, I said yes.

After the initial adrenaline rush of finally agreeing to go to the shooting wore off, I almost immediately began to regret the decision.  I had never really seen my dad in this light before. I was more accustomed to seeing my dad in, "shooting a bow and arrow at a fake deer from a canoe in the pool" mode, or "ordering ice cream (poorly) in a drive thru at a Dairy Queen in rural Arkansas" mode, or "arguing with an automated voice while trying to (inexplicably) call the AOL customer service help line in the year 2011" mode. But my dad in gun mode? That was a completely different person entirely.  To quote the most recently gentleman I have gone on a date with, "I finally saw that terrifying photo you sent me of your father holding a gun. Message received."

My dad came down the stairs of the house carrying a rifle in one hand, and a giant titanium silver lock box in the other. He placed the box on the ground, and motioned to me to begin carrying it.  "What is in this thing, Dad?" I asked. He stared at me for a long time then slowly and methodically said in a voice that can only be described as Bain-like, "Oh just you wait. You'll find out."

After a painstaking 45 minute drive through the bowels of unincorporated Jefferson Parish, we finally arrived at the gun range.  There are approximately 8-10 middle aged ex police officer men loitering out front, wearing outfits comprised entirely of different shades of khaki.  Here's lesson number one of the day: you always wear khaki on khaki at the gun range. I, of course, did not get the memo, and arrived in leggings, boots, a two-toned sweater shirt, 3850 gold bangle bracelets, a gold watch, and gold earrings. Oh, and because of a tumble I had taken walking down the street while jamming to spotify's "cash money millionaires back that azz up" radio station, the leggings I was wearing were torn, and my knees were both bloody.  But sure, let's strap a gun in my hands and see what happens. 

Before we go in, my dad turns to me and says, "now when we go in there, can you just not talk? I don't want them to know its your first time ever shooting a gun." I agree, because I have rarely heard my dad sound so vulnerable, and he seemed like he genuinely didn't want to be embarrassed.

We walk in, and we are greeted by the proprietor of Jefferson Parish Guns and Sundries (or, you know, whatever the real name was), and his absolutely frightening looking adult son.  Every promise I had made to my dad immediately flies out of my mind and I squeal out, "OH EM GEE DAD! It's just like how it looks in the movies!" After my exclamation, the only sound that can be heard in the front area is the sound of my 54,482 gold wrist bangles jangling together.  And with that, my cover is blown.

We begin to fill out the requisite paper work, which is where I learn lesson number two of the day: do not try and  negotiate any of the terms of the (numerous) liability waivers they force you to sign with the adult son of a gun range owner.  It will not end well.

Finally, after embarrassing my father some more (requesting to try on numerous and different pairs of protective eye and ear wear, then taking numerous selfies in those different combinations of eye and ear wear to determine which were the most flattering), we finally go into the actual range. 

First up, my dad teaches me how to use the rifle. After explanation of how one loads the rifle, takes the safety off the rifle, etc, he finally hands it to me. I stand with the rifle, loaded with the safety off facing the target. But then it dawns on me, I obviously have to snap chat this moment to everyone I know, so I turn around and face my dad and begin to say, "snap chat this!" But after my dad began ducking and screaming at me so loudly all the gun shooters could hear him through their protective ear wear,  that is when I learned lesson number three of the day: you do not waive around a loaded rifle in an attempt to get your father to take a picture of you.  Apparently that is both in bad form, and dangerous.

So I begin shooting the gun, and I am actually not terrible at it. It was then when I learned what my dad kept in the titanium case. Spoiler alert! It was more guns.  So we move on to a pistol.

That is when my father took the lesson to a whole new level.  He began very deliberately positioning the target at specific distances, moving it back and forth until it was perfect.  While this happened, I took more selfies and sent them to everyone I knew. The owner and his frightening looking adult son stood behind the glass and watched both of us.  Finally, my dad turns to me and says, "This is the man who is trying to attack you" and points to the target. Oh okay, so we're going there. I chime back, "Dad, that's sexist. Why can't it be a woman who is going to murder me -- I think Eileen Wurnos broke that glass ceiling for us. Women can do anything men can do." That was when, with almost comedic timing, the other lone shooter in our section of the range finally shot his gun. So startled, I scream and fling my gold-encased iphone almost the entire length of the range. One point to Dad.

I begin shooting at my "assailant" and I miss the target completely.  Father is displeased.  "TRY IT AGAIN" he barks.  It reminds me of the time on a road trip to Florida when I was 6 when my father taught me how to spell "Tallahassee." For the entire 8 hour drive. I'll tell you what though, I might sometimes accidentally misspell Louisiana, but I NEVER misspell Tallahassee.  So I try again. And again. And again. Each time not even hitting anywhere on the target.  My dad says, "if only you could focus on shooting the target like you've been focusing on those chatty snaps." So then I began to imagine myself shooting pictures with my phone, and will you believe, my aim improved?

We finally make our way to the revolver, which, as it turns out, I was the best at aiming and shooting. Finally, the lesson appears to be coming to an end, and we begin to pack up our things.

As we are packing up, a mother and her 15 year old son, and 25year old son walk into the range. The mother and teenage son are wearing...you guessed it: different shades of khaki on khaki.  The 25 year old son (who I immediately begin attempting to make romantic eyes at), is wearing wrangler jeans and a Metallica concert tee.  The mom is yelling at both of them to set up their (brought from home, personalized) military grade targets. I would have yelled back, "I didn't go to 22 years of schooling just to set up my mom's targets at the gun range." Her sons, instead, responded, "yes ma'am" with their heads down. I started to worry about what home life was like for this family.

As we walk out, I continue staring at this very perplexing family unit. What do they watch on tv at night? Does their mother let them watch shows like "The Mindy Project?" How many guns do they own? Do they listen to Mumford and Sons? Do they like Whole Foods? Have they ever done a Juice Cleanse? The questions continue swirling through my head, until I catch something out of the corner of my eye.  There is something on the mother's gun shooting hand, but I can't quite  make it out. Finally, curiosity taking over, I walk closer to the mother, and I see it: she is wearing a blue knock-off Kate Middleton engagement ring on her trigger finger.  OH THE IRONY, I think to myself. Here we are, engaging in literally one of the most stereotypical American moments one could have, and what is this woman wearing on her TRIGGER FINGER, of all things? The Future Queen of England's engagement ring.

God Bless America, but also God Save the Queen.

I still don't know how John Adams would have felt about it.