Two years ago on Father’s Day, I gave my dad a silly gift: a coupon for him to take me shooting. Part of the deal included that I would make no snarky comments about the 2nd Amendment or gun control laws. So today, dad finally cashed in his coupon and took me to the Eastern Nebraska Gun Club and we shot us some guns.
I shot a .22 rifle, which I sucked at. Didn’t even hit the target once. I was telling a friend at work that I couldn’t hit a target 50 yards away, and lamented that I’d be completely worthless in a zombie apocalypse. His response? “No you wouldn’t. You’d be fodder.”
I fared much better with the pistols.
First I shot just a .22 pistol (by far my favorite gun of the day), and then I shot a 9mm. The recoil on the 9mm was a little tough to manage at first, but my last shot was much better.
I would not be opposed to going shooting again, and maybe next time I’ll be in a little better mood.
It’s been a week since the boy said goodbye, and I feel like I should be okay. But I’m not. And mornings are hardest, because I wake up hoping to see an email or a text from him (Hmmm…maybe I am in a little denial?) Not to mention that the boy wanted to take me shooting too…just one of the many future plans he made for us that will never happen.
And even though I wanted to picture his face on the targets, I couldn’t. And that made me mad, too.
But the weather was gorgeous, and my dad took time off of work to take me there, and now I can say that I have indeed fired a weapon.
That feels pretty hardcore.