I didn’t plan on getting my inner redneck on yesterday, but what can I say, she just came out. Deep in the woods of no man’s land, burnt wood smoking to my side, and the strip of cool winter against my skin, I just had to shoot a few shotguns. I thought I was on an episode of Buckwild, until I realized my camera didn’t do slow-mo quite the way there’s did. I couldn’t see the punch to my shoulder as the bullet went wind-borne. Unfortunately, I was also fully-clothed, so not quite nude enough for MTV. A day before the Superbowl (which commercials have been sucking, literally, we just watched Bar Rafaeli make out with Walter), I had to show the world what a true-woman I was.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually for guns. In fact, I’m a twinge for the ban on assault rifles (don’t shoot me, pun intended). I just think the very name of an “assault rifle” proves the average civilian doesn’t need to have one of those laying around in an unlocked panty drawer. However, I believe that people have the right to bare arms, have the right to go out into the woods and kill game to feed their family and make a sale. I believe in hunting for overpopulation reasons. I’m not anti-gun, let me put it that way. I also like the idea that Obama and I were skeet shooting on the same weekend.
At first, I wasn’t going to shoot. Lauren even said “we’ll be eye candy for the boys,” which sounds like a phrase that’s very against my normally feminist-driven ways, but I was happy to be a little eye-candy. It was cold, we hadn’t yet built a fire, and how much candy could I give in a large coat and jeans. It’s like giving a skittle, when boys want the bag.
I watched for a bit, stared intently at shoulders to make sure no sockets were detaching. And then, I was offered a choice of weapons. Matt in his best voice, “choose your weapon.” It was a movie moment, my hair was blowing in the wind, I shrugged and was suddenly loading my first Winchester. If the boys weren’t there I definitely would have held it away from my shoulder and had a nasty purple bruise, but I was lucky and had a manucation about guns. I held it against the soft cleft of my shoulder and prayed a few whispers for no broken bones and pulled the trigger.
Red is dead.
I like to think I have game. I played paintball at summer camp in cargo pants a few times, got blood on my helmet, busted a lip, broke my nose (I’m pretty sure) in kindergarten. I’ve taken people off the field with a quick yellow blow to the face mask. I’m a bit of a beast. They even make it easy for you with shotguns and yet I’m incapable of hitting a target. Good thing, I was facing away from people, huh?
Shooting a gun is like having a superpower that you can’t control. I felt a little Incredible Hulk coming up in me. I didn’t turn green, but I had sudden peck muscles and bicep muscles that appeared from nowhere. I became a wild thang. I made people’s heart sing. (Just kidding). I’ve read books with lots of guns and violent. Matt is actually reading the first Sword of Truth book to me currently while it doesn’t include firearms just yet, it is very violent. I can understand why characters suddenly become evil with the steel of a gun against their hip. There’s definitely an element of psycho involved in shooting a gun (I’m not a very good advertisement).
As you can see, I was wearing my lumberjack outfit because I thought if I was going into hay fields and deer woods, I might as well look the part. After I shot a few times, complained about the bruise that’s coming in on my shoulder, and sat with my hands between my knees thinking about the impact that bullet had on the field I shot it into, I was ready to go to the farm.
One of the people we were shooting with owns a giant farm near my new town and we went and petted a few donkeys. There were babies with cocked ears and furry hinds who just stared at us. I tried to pet one, but as you can see Matt is the donkey whisperer. I guess they could tell I preferred horses before I met them. Apparently, Alex breeds his donkey’s bigger. I think he said their “mammoth” donkeys, but I’m not sure and I don’t quite feel like googling. I wish mammoths still existed though.
We pet the donkeys, dust coating our hands and enjoyed the sunset of farm life. Sometimes I think I could grow plants for the rest of my life and be happy. Then I remember I was born with a pen in my mouth and I need to step back to my desk and write about the boy who delivers eggs, wiping each one with a dry wash cloth for the girl just next door.